
Class lrl.Q._LUi7 

Book_ ■ W^,. 

GopightN°____ . 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSre 



BY THE FIRESIDE 



BY THE FIRESIDE 

BY 

CHARLES WAGNER 

Author of 

The Simple Life and 

The Better Way 




McClure, Phillips Sf Co, 

New York 

190i 



LIBRARY *f CONGSESS 
Two C«pi«8 Recejved 

MAR 31 1904 
cuss a« xxo. No. 







Copyright, 1904, hy 
McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 



Published, April, 1904, N 



PREFACE 



PREFACE 

FOREMOST among the things that never 
perish, though continually changing, is 
the family. Among different peoples and 
in different ages its appearance differs, but in one 
form or another it always exists. 

Not only has the family undergone profound 
changes, it has suffered grave deterioration, encoun- 
tered innumerable enemies, contracted vices and 
taken on stains. It appears to us as a human in- 
stitution, regulated by customs and laws, exposed 
to the errors and passions of men ; and by virtue of 
its exterior conditions it belongs to the ephemeral: 
but by its root it plunges into the eternal. Love and 
the ties of blood — the centuries pass, these things 
endure. As ancient as the world, they are as young 
as each new morning, and we are men only in pro- 
portion to the hold they have taken upon us. 

I am going to speak here of these sacred and im- 
mortal commonplaces, among which we need to re- 
fresh ourselves as in a fountain of youth. The 



VIU 



PREFACE 



reader will find in my book^ as in life, lights and 
shadows; I have not tried to dissimulate the dark 
points : but I have sought to bring the luminous ones 
into relief. This honour we owe to the ideal. 

Need I ask indulgence for having sometimes 
called up personal remembrances ? I thought in this 
way the pages would gain in local colour, and I have 
given rein to my gratitude in sketching the traits 
of some dear figures now disappeared from earth. 

We shall never feel enough devotion for the 
hearth. Why is it not given me to offer a more un- 
blemished gift upon its modest altars ? I bring there 
at least all the warmth of my heart and all my filial 
piety. If some of my readers should learn to love 
one another better, no fruit of my labour would 
seem to me more sweet. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I. THE ROOF-TREE .... 3 
II. THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY . . 16 

III. TWO MAKE ONE .... 31 

IV. FATHERHOOD — MOTHER- 

HOOD 51 

V. A NURSERY OF MEN— PAR- 
ENTS AND CHILDREN . . 62 

VI. BROTHERS AND SISTERS . . 84, 

VII. GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY . . 101 

VIII. WHAT THOSE DO WHO NO 

LONGER DO ANYTHING . 119 

IX. OUR SERVANTS . . . .137 

X. OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS . . 148 

XL ORDER IN THE HOUSE . . I6l 



X CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XII. WOMAN'S WORK . . . .169 

XIII. THE EVIL DAYS . . . .181 

XIV. FAIR WEATHER . . . .192 
XV. HOSPITALITY 200 

XVI. GOOD HUMOUR AT HOME . . 208 

XVII. OUR ACQUAINTANCES AND 
FRIENDS — OUR FRIENDS 
THE POOR 216 

XVIII. WHEN THE BIRDS LEAVE 

THE NEST 228 

XIX. WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 

TO THE NEST . . . .250 

XX. HEARTS BEREFT . . . .265 

XXL HEIRLOOMS AND FAMILY 

TRADITIONS 279 

XXII. THE RELIGION OF THE HOME 288 



BY THE FIRESIDE 



THE ROOF-TREE 

I CROSS with emotion the threshold of the 
home^ whose very name is so full of suggestion 
and memories. 
The roof is primarily a shelter. Cold and heat^ 
all the inclemencies of sky and enemies of earth, 
urge man to build it and protect it. He who 
lacks this refuge lacks everything, and to picture 
in a word the depths of want, we say of a man that 
he is homeless. Would you have, on the contrary, 
a perfect picture of the happiness of civilised life, 
you may find it in a family circle, unbroken, old and 
young together, under the protecting roof, round a 
cheerful fire where the evening meal is singing in 
the great pot. 

But the roof is something besides a shelter; it is 
a centre of stability. If man had no need of it 
for cover and defence, he would still feel driven to 
find somewhere in the wide earth a corner of his 
own, to attach himself to some familiar spot. True, 



4 BY THE FIRESIDE 

life is a journey^ and we are all on a pilgrimage; 
but every one of us is in search of a country. The 
most intrepid traveller, the most indefatigable ex- 
plorer, cannot exist and be always under way. 
When distance has lost its enchantment, and his 
ardour for adventure has cooled, when he has braved 
dangers and looked upon wonders, desire wakens in 
his heart to find a resting-place. The more coun- 
tries and men and things he has seen, the greater 
becomes his thirst for a fixed abode, for peace and 
the affections of a home. The Wandering Jew him- 
self sighs for but one thing, to make a halt, and 
that for ever. 

A sure refuge, a rallying-point whither all a 
man's ways lead him back — the roof -tree is this ; but 
it is other than this and more; it is one of the ma- 
terial forms in which our spiritual nature manifests 
and interprets itself. Man has need of creating a 
world in his own image, to help him keep his base, 
remain faithful to himself, and his dwelling is this 
world in miniature. Nothing else speaks so surely 
and so eloquently of that inner tribunal we call 
conscience as does our abode; from the rudest and 
most primitive shelter to the perfectly appointed 
house, every habitation reveals the soul of its inhabi- 



THE ROOF-TREE 5 

tant. The lines of roof and walls^ the contour of 
windows, the ornamentation of the facade, the style 
and arrangement of furnishings and pictures, the 
" den,*' the cookery, even to the flower growing in 
the window — it all bears the human stamp. What 
a man is, what his ideals are and his life, such is his 
home. Every civilisation, every epoch of history, 
has had its characteristic dwelling-place, a faithful 
epitome of its social state; building has ever been 
an act of faith and a declaration of principles. Man 
builds his house upon the foundation which inspires 
in him the greatest confidence, with the materials 
that seem to offer the best assurance ; and he knows 
how to make it the symbol of his spirit, to give it the 
physiognomy of his taste, the fashion of his will. 
His dwelling is garnished with his virtue, warmed 
with his tenderness, stained with his impurity ; there 
his kindness smiles and his ill-humour grumbles. 
One man's house is like the lair of a beast, grim and 
inhospitable; another's is inviting and homelike, 
even to the guest of a day or the stranger within its 
gates. In some dwellings one breathes an incense, 
as of the spirit, they are like sanctuaries ; in others 
everything suggests worldly interests, calculation, 
the fierce strife for possession ; you sense the turmoil 



6 BY THE FIRESIDE 

of the market-place or the frenzy of the exchange. 
Elsewhere, no sooner across the threshold than a 
studious atmosphere envelops you ; every corner ex- 
hales an indefinable spirit of revery and thought_, of 
which even the most obtuse visitor is sensible. Nu- 
merous interiors make us think of restaurants and 
hotels_, even of railway stations; in others there 
comes involuntarily to the mind this passage from 
Job: " The hypocrite buildeth his house like a 
spider's web; " for everything combines to allure, 
to entrap and to tempt. 

This spirit of places is felt and responded to 
through many channels, and it is so intensely real 
that it still manifests itself even where man has no 
control over the outward form of his dwelling. 
Take at random a dozen homes on the same corridor 
of a great tenement-house of the poorer quarters. 
They are identical in size, plan, and exposure, yet 
how marked and how very strange the contrasts! 
In no two do we breathe the same atmosphere, and 
so different are the impressions everywhere re- 
ceived, that we might be crossing frontiers or pass- 
ing from continent to continent. It is simply that 
a room, even a prison cell, takes on the aspect of its 
tenant. The same gloves on different hands, the 



THE ROOF-TREE 7 

same costumes on different women, are transformed 
by differences of figure_, mind and culture; and 
the same walls housing different people, produce 
totally different effects. 

ee- ^ * ^ * 

For all these reasons, the dwelling-place is one of 
the most important matters in human life. It some- 
how involves our destiny, and cannot be a thing of 
indifference. In those intimate visions where our 
imagination creates an ideal world, we build our 
home. To realise it, to dwell some day among our 
household gods, in a corner all our own, however 
unpretentious — ^who of us does not aspire to this? 
The small shopkeeper behind his counter, in the 
close air of a narrow street, bears courageously the 
burden of the day. He is thinking of the home, 
modest and tranquil, where he hopes to end his days, 
forgetful of business and its cares, of the big books 
and their maddening figures; and his dream bears 
him up. The day labourer, economical and steady, 
sacrifices amusement and denies himself the most 
legitimate comforts^ to add to his savings and his 
chances of some day possessing a modest little home. 
Nearly every one has his dwelling all planned, and 
frequently installs himself there in spirit; and it is 



8 BY THE FIRESIDE 

the most human thing in the world. But how many 
obstacles there are to the realisation of this dream ! 
Our age especially is as merciless toward it as hoar 
frost to spring flowers. The home of our visions ! 
— most of us are obliged to say adieu to it without 
having laid the first stone. 

As an inevitable consequence of the concentra- 
tion of modern society in great cities and their sub- 
urbs^ man's abode has undergone profound modifica- 
tions. It has lost its individuality^ and like every- 
thing else^ has fallen into anonymousness and 
become impersonal. The man and his dwelling dis- 
appear in the crowd. 

This is most apparent among the labouring classes, 
who can no longer procure for themselves, even with 
money, what Nature provides gratuitous and un- 
stinted, namely, space, light and air. And many of 
their dwellings are not only defective from the point 
of view of hygiene, they are scarcely a protection 
against the changes of the seasons, while still less 
do they respond to the higher and infinitely more 
interesting conditions of the home. As family meet- 
ing places, as a setting for afl*ection and education 
and the normal development of life, they fall 
lamentably short. How is a true home possible 



THE ROOF-TREE 9 

where one room must be put to all kinds of service, 
and there is no place for rest or solitude or relaxa- 
tion? A too communal life degenerates into dis- 
order; its members incommode one another; in the 
too narrow space their intercourse becomes distress- 
ful, and poison, physical and moral, lurks in the 
dose atmosphere. It is not astonishing that such 
dwelling-places cease to attract and are often de- 
serted. Among people of some means the homes 
are more comfortable, but with too rare exception 
they are quite as common and quite as unstable. This 
last above all ! Is it not a cheat and a sarcasm to 
continue to give the name of abode to our apart- 
ments rented by the month or year, or to those whose 
terms run a half dozen years at most? The life is 
rather suggestive of leaving than of abiding. The 
day-labourer is so little at ease in his home, that he 
moves continually, and the middle classes follow his 
example; every three months a good part of the 
population is in the street. We are nomads save for 
the tent, the light equipment and the wide horizons ; 
nomads from room to room, embarrassed by endless 
traps. In these houses, left for a whim, a mere 
nothing, each tenant is a stranger to the others. We 
follow strangers and strangers follow us, leaving 



10 BY THE FIRESIDE 

no wake behind. Whatever personal impression we 
have made there_, is invisible to those who come after 
us, and we cannot take it away, so it profits nobody. 
We pass through our multitudinous lodgings, leav- 
ing no more trace — ^to use the picturesque Old Tes- 
tament expression — ^than a serpent on a rock. The 
sole keeper of our remembrance, the last refuge for 
a tradition of us, is that frail link between the pass- 
ing tenants of a great modem apartment house, the 
cranium of the j anitor— if the j anitor himself be not 
a restless nomad, wandering from lodge to lodge. 

What a fluctuating source of public spirit, what 
a vacuum in the civic life, do these existences without 
a *' local habitation " make ! What a waste of physi- 
cal energy, of spiritual treasure, of material indis- 
pensable to the solidity of a social structure, in this 
incessant come and go ! 

We change lodgings too often, figuratively as 
well as literally; customs, ideas, beliefs, laws are 
all submitted to a regime of perpetual mutation, 
and things are no longer in their places. As for us, 
we have contracted a vagabond existence compar- 
able to that of the unfortunates who lie down at 
night forgetful of where they last slept, nor know- 
ing where it will be next. The thought of it makes 



THE ROOF-TREE 11 

me envy the lot of those who have a house of their 
own, however tiny, where their forefathers died and 
their children were born; a house which speaks of 
personal things, preserves the dear old traditions 
and the memories of childhood, says adieu when you 
leave it, and smiles when you return. That ances- 
tral home, of which we sometimes muse with such 
bitter regret — how shall it be ours again, how shall 
we come into our own ? 

For my part, when I search for mine, I find noth- 
ing at all. Across its site stretches a railway em- 
bankment, grim and ugly, which has cut in two 
the peaceful valley where my childhood passed. But 
I have at least the remembrance of it, and may at 
will fancy the smoke rising from the roof, the trees 
in the garden, and the poor river, so merry then, now 
forced to flow underground. The native of great 
cities has not even this consolation. Ask where he 
was born and he answers : " Oh, I don't know ! I Ve 
been told such a street, such a number ; but the next 
year we moved. I Ve lost all trace of it." Often the 
street has changed its name, the ** number " is demol- 
ished; sometimes the whole quarter has been trans- 
formed. 

In this matter, so important to early education, the 



12 BY THE FIRESIDE 

basis of the traditions on which a man's life is built^ 
the country child is a king in comparison with chil- 
dren city-born. Happy the son of a peasant or a 
woodman_, who spends his childhood under the shade 
of the paternal roof^ in the peaceful setting of 
woods and fields ! The morning sun wakens him, 
the birds sing him welcome^ the flowers greet his 
holidays; the good old trees, that he knows as 
friends, stretch protecting arms over his sleep; his 
grandfather, coming out to warm himself in the 
gentle glow of the evening sun, tells him tales of 
other times, and gradually, nourished by the lessons 
of things calm and sure, there develops within him 
the consciousness without which man is only a vacil- 
lating shadow on the surface of water, the conscious- 
ness that there are such things, enduring things, in 
place for eternity, and that it is well to attach him- 
self to them if he would become strong and stable. 
■X- ^ -x- -se- "X- 

But let us get back to reality. Let us not give 
ourselves over to discouragement or regret, but face 
the actual situation and try to make the best of it. 
What can be done to give a more permanent exterior 
setting to family life, to atone for the absence of a 
stable roof -tree ? 



THE ROOF-TREE 13 

First we must aim for a minimum of change^ be- 
come less and less birds of passage, not leaving for 
trivial reasons a dwelling which has become a part 
of our life, and to which the first impressions of our 
children are perhaps attached. It is not a matter 
of indiiference whether or no a man be faithful to 
his dwelling. There are two divorces that are doing 
our society to death, man's divorce from the soil and 
his divorce from the home. But if imperious reasons 
condemn us to " move " in spite of ourselves, in de- 
fault of a house, in default of an apartment, let us 
cling to our furniture. Let us preserve with care 
everything that could perpetuate a tradition or pre- 
serve a memory. Let us not disdain an arm-chair 
we have always seen about, a table beside which we 
grew up ; such things, however simple, have for us 
and for our children a spiritual worth that is in- 
calculable. Some old bit, without significance to 
profane eyes, is equivalent to a title of nobility ; to 
take it to the bric-a-brac dealer dishonours us. The 
more life buffets us, casts us out upon the world and 
bears us along in its impetuous current, the more 
need for holding fast to these tokens, which are so 
many planks of safety on the flood. And yet we 
must not be materialistic ; in spite of its capital im- 



14 BY THE FIRESIDE 

portance, it is not after all the house that makes the 
home. 

There are classes of men to whom nothing is lack- 
ing of what goes to make up the external trappings 
of a residence. Civilisation has heaped their hands 
with treasure, given them comfort_, room, peace, 
everything necessary to the setting up of this ma- 
terial home. But they possess it only to desert it. 
Parents and children go each his own way, and the 
family dissolves. 

Elsewhere the contrary happens. I know a 
bridge in Paris where every day you may find a 
woman selling soup at two sous a plate. Her stand 
consists of three or four planks and an umbrella- 
like awning, and it would be hard to imagine a less 
convenient place for a family reunion. No matter ! 
Under this precarious shelter, open to all the winds 
of heaven, there gather every evening, round a 
smoky torch, all the children, some of them study- 
ing their lessons, and the father, resting after the 
toil of the day. These people have the spirit of 
family, and that is the essential thing. This spirit 
it is that must be saved, nourished, strengthened; 
and it is tenacious, strikes root in the most ungrate- 
ful soil. 



THE ROOF-TREE 15 

In certain maritime countries where the fishermen 
are very religious^ each takes an image of his pa- 
tron saint for the figure-head of his bark. When 
the sea shatters their little fleet on the reefs it is 
counted the best of omens if among the wreckage 
the carved image of the saint be rescued^ and when 
better times come and the barks are rebuilt, the 
saint again holds the place of honour. It is a prac- 
tice of deep wisdom and simple piety, whose spirit 
we should do well to make our own. 

The materialistic age in which we live has shat- 
tered the old-time setting wherein family life used 
to develop, but at least let us save the wreckage, 
and, above all, the Saint, the family spirit ; though 
our home be buffeted like the fishermen's barks, and 
as vagrant as the vans of the gypsies ! 



II 

THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 

WHAT is family spirit? Before giving 
this question a positive answer^ we must 
proceed to a sort of clearing away of 
rubbishy a work of elimination. 

There are many minds as to what constitutes the 
spirit of family, and the numerous conceptions of it 
circulating in the world bear little resemblance to 
one another and are by no means always of a high 
order. The detractors and enemies of the home see 
in family spirit something egoistic, narrow and ex- 
clusive; they warn us against displaying it and 
urge us to declare war against it. There are men 
who may have reason to complain of their family, 
for whom simply the word suggests the unhappiest 
memories and stirs up the bitterest feeling. There 
are fanatics for figures, applying statistics to every- 
thing, who think that in order to properly define 
family spirit, we must take a sort of mean of dif- 
ferent households: to their notion family spirit is 

16 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 17 

the one dominant in the greatest number of cases — 
a spirit with nothing very exalted about it. 

In the wake of any of these categories of men^ we 
arrive at conclusions confused, inexact and dan- 
gerous^ but in disregarding what they have to say, 
we risk disregarding reality and launching into 
Utopia. Let us look at their ideas, discuss them^ 
and make a way through the tangle to the light. 
Our chief concern is to acknowledge truth wherever 
we find it, and to find what there is of it, even in the 
most extravagant opinions. 

Unfortunately it is too true that in certain fami- 
lies the ruling spirit is narrow and selfish. We need 
but to mention some of its traits to call up in the 
mind of every one numerous illustrations from his 
own experience. Are there not families animated 
by a spirit so exclusive that they deserve rather to 
be called cliques? He who does not share their 
opinions, lacks intelligence; he who has not their 
tastes, does not know what is seemly. They are im- 
pervious to all foreign influence; what good thing 
can come from without? Even friendship is ex- 
cluded. They say to one another, "We must choose 
our friends among ourselves, and make no others." 



18 BY THE FIRESIDE 

Every pact of fellowship outside their severely 
circumscribed limits is looked upon as felony, and 
whoever tries to penetrate within them is treated 
as an intruder. 

Again, it is the spirit of caste that infects the 
family atmosphere, with its pride and its disdainful 
ways. When we look into some faces we see written 
there : We are all ! The world is theirs by right of 
rank, and not to show yourself of this mind by bow- 
ing before their superiority, is an evidence of stupid- 
ity or of vulgar training. 

Other families are organised like trusts, for the 
monopoly of influence, power, wealth, place; 
everything is meant for them. They establish 
themselves in a city or a country like colonists come 
to exploit it: the common run of its inhabitants are 
a sort of inferior race, good at most for serving them. 
And to be of this type, one need not descend from 
the Crusaders nor belong in any category of nota- 
bles; obscure families in plenty are organised on 
this footing. You might call them brigands; the 
rest of society is their forest. They lie in wait for 
their prey, and carry off the spoils. 

That such a spirit is detestable, that under all 
these different forms, narrowness, egoism, and f am- 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 19 

ily pride have got a bad reputation in the world, is 
certain, and I find it quite natural. But is this 
family spirit? Is it just to visit on all the hearths 
round which men gather, the reprobation due to 
these inhospitable and dangerous ambuscades where 
lurks the spirit of caste, of inhumanity, of tyranny 
and spoils ? 

Let us pass now to those who through the family 
feel themselves aggrieved. At the very mention of 
the word, they cringe. " Oh, the family ! " they cry, 
in a voice wherein are concentrated all their hurts, 
*' don't speak of it to me ! It has done me nothing 
but injury. Our worst enemies are our kin and con- 
nections. Better solitude and savagery than family 
life." 

These cries, alas! are not always uttered by the 
ungrateful, men void of natural affection and in- 
sensible to it; they as often come from the victims 
of human cruelty, to whom this affection has been 
denied. There is within man a brute, and this brute 
is nowhere else so terrible as in the family. When 
it wakes, with its evil instincts, its perversities and 
diabolical subtleties, woe to him who falls into its 
power ! 

We have a proverb from antiquity which sums up 



20 BY THE FIRESIDE 

the sad truth that through corruption the best things 
become the worst. How many grievous illustrations 
has family life not furnished this formula of ancient 
wisdom! In truths many a family is pervaded by 
a thoroughly bad spirit^ a spirit of jealousy and 
division. Nowhere else is hatred more implacable 
than in families; among people unrelated, it can 
not outdo the fierceness it reaches among those who 
are akin. Sons hate their fathers, and fathers their 
sons ; brothers and sisters detest each other ; hatred 
comes between husband and wife, and then the evil 
may be said to have reached its limit. No other pas- 
sion, no murderous power, has ever made the human 
heart undergo more intimate and horrible tortures 
than has family hatred. We could not feel pity 
enough for its victims : but this frankly avowed and 
deplored, we have the right to protest and to say, 
this is not family spirit! 

•X- -x- * * * 

Here, however, we are met by the statisticians, 
who count the cases and draw the conclusions their 
pessimism demands. They make scrupulous anal- 
ysis of all the different family atmospheres, and con- 
fide the results to their accusing note-books; then 
from this mass of evidence they establish propor- 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 21 

tions. Out of every hundred families there are so 
many unhappy marriages, so many rebellious chil- 
dren_, so many hostile brothers^ so many relatives at 
war over inheritance^ so many j ealous husbands and 
termagant wives^ so many centres of gossip for 
calumniating and pestering our neighbour^ so many 
cabals plotting to rob him of his goods. Deducting 
all these deplorable cases^ there remains not much 
more than a family here and there where life goes 
on somewhat in keeping. Then have we not the 
right to say that the spirit of family is bad.^ 

If we must hold to statistics^ I acknowledge there 
is nothing to do but grant that the great majority of 
families^ in some sense at leasts fall under this piti- 
less arraignment^ and that in face of the brutality 
of figures we make a sorry showing. Besides the 
families where the spirit is frankly bad, how many 
are vulgar, materialistic, uninteresting! But sta- 
tistics are out of place here ; they are not profitable, 
not even truthful. 

What should we think of the man who in response 
to the questions, "What is painting? What is 
poetry? " should set about making a category of all 
the works of brushes and pens innumerable, and 
taking a sort of mean out of this medley, should de- 



22 BY THE FIRESIDE 

clare^ " This is paintings this is poetry " ? Poetry 
would then be represented by myriads of unknown 
men who have written bad verses. The spirit of 
poetry would not be that of Homer^ Shakespeare, 
Goethe, Corneille, but the spirit of the majority: 
Raphael and Titian would no longer be painters. 

The fact is that statistics, though an excellent and 
useful science, is not all-sufficient. Applied to 
certain questions, it becomes absurd. To find out 
what art is, we must go to the works of the masters. 
And yet, the masters themselves, if we might ques- 
tion them, would reply : " What is Art ? Not we and 
our works. It is what we dreamed rather than what 
we accomplished. Our happiest achievements fell 
far short of our aspirations ; they were only the re- 
flection of an unattainable ideal. The most beauti- 
ful songs have never been written, the most beautiful 
pictures never painted." 

Let us apply these reflections to the spirit of the 
family. 

Evidently it is not the spirit of the greatest num- 
ber of families. It is not so much what is as what 
ought to be, something made manifest here and 
there, appearing intermittently, even among people 
of generally commonplace type. 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 23 

The spirit of family is made of the best that 
family life produces^ though this best be rare^ and 
not of the ordinary or worsts though these may be 
met at every street corner. 

Were you to point out to me a thousand families 
of egoists^ vain^ sordidly selfish^ given to wrangling^ 
impure of lif e^ I have no less the right to show you 
a group of kindly f olk^ united, great-hearted^ self- 
sacrificing^ and to say to you: " This is a true famil}^^ 
animated by the spirit all families should have ! '' 
And supposing such a group cannot be founds per- 
fection not being of this worlds wherever there is 
manifest in the midst of our errors and aberrations 
a lofty spirit^ better^ more generous^ tender and 
pure^ I have the right to say: *' Here are signs of 
the family spirit; " and focussing into one all the 
scattered rays of this benign lights do I not speak 
spiritual truth when I say: This is the spirit of 
family ? 

Now let us try to characterise this spirit^ as here 
and there it discloses itself^ incorrupt and ideal, 
across our fragmentary and thwarted lives. 

The sentiment of family is the conscious and de- 
liberate expression of what we call the tie of blood; 
it has therefore its origin in obscurity, is instinctive 



24 BY THE FIRESIDE 

before it becomes rational, seizes upon the heart be- 
fore it speaks to the disciplined emotions and the 
intelligence. And this obscure basis which supplies 
the place of reflection while that is still dormant, re- 
mains after it has wakened to conscious life. The 
sentiment of family has its roots in our bones and 
marrow. It is stronger than reason or will, wider 
than the domain of speech. It reaches to the sacred 
and mysterious bounds where being merges in the 
Eternal Essence, in the very will of God itself. 

The form of the family fluctuates. It differs 
with pre-historic man, the savage and the civilised; 
it is not the same among the ancients and the 
moderns; it submits itself over and over to the 
influence of changing historic environment. Pro- 
foimd diff'erences and striking contrasts separate 
the patriarchal family from the feudal; the family 
of the old regime, with its rights of seniority, from 
the family of to-day ; the polygamous family from 
the monogamous. But underneath all these forms 
there is one thing which persists, the tie of blood. 
These changing relations between father and son 
and between brothers, make no diff*erence; across 
this fluctuating surface of things, the immutable 
comes to the light. In those hours when the cry of 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 25 

blood makes itself heard, in those moments when 
some strange exaltation possesses us^ to teach us by 
experience the strength of natural ties, a father is 
a father, a son a son, a mother a mother, little matter 
the customs, the laws, the times, or the social estate. 

The depth and energy of the spirit of family are 
comparable to the great forces of Nature: we see 
their effects, beneficent or blasting, but it is impos- 
sible to control or measure them. There are no 
scales on earth to weigh the rapture and tenderness 
or the anguish and despair that men have put in 
turn into these simple cries : My father ! my child ! 
my brother ! 

When we speak of the family spirit, of family in- 
stincts and sentiments, we touch, then, the very base 
of life, the very springs of being, that which is at 
once the most primitive and indestructible and the 
newest and most surprising. Whether they trans- 
port us with felicity or slay us with grief, these sen- 
timents have this strange thing about them, that 
they are incommunicable and inexpi^essible. Only 
those who feel them understand them, and it seems 
then as though the experience must be new to the 
world. 

The family spirit destroys neither the value nor 



26 BY THE FIRESIDE 

the force of individuality, but it teaches the indi- 
vidual that he is a member of a whole, and makes 
him incapable of living as though he were alone or 
absolutely separate from those about him. Through 
the family spirit we learn that others are somewhat 
a part of ourselves, man touches man. Thee and me 
— those two great antagonists, those ardent rivals, 
mad to distinguish themselves, to separate their in- 
terests, to establish their boundaries, suddenly per- 
ceive that they have been labouring under a delusion. 
Let an egoist become a father, for example: he ex- 
periences an inconceivable surprise. This Other, 
who has never hitherto interested him, not even ap- 
pealed to him, now becomes as close as though a part 
of him. What confusion of mind, what agitation! 
From this time on there is some one whom he calls 
"thou,'* as he already calls others; but when this 
some one is struck, he himself feels the blow. He 
is captured. He has made the prime discovery for 
us : he has perceived that our life circulates in other 
lives, and other lives in ours. God gives this lesson 
to man, that egoist by nature, and He gives it to 
him in the family, that later he may profit from it 
in society. 

Our natural ferocity would be untamable, were 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 27 

we not held in leash by the ties of blood, but thanks 
to them, we are vulnerable and there is hope of sub- 
duing us. While this is going on, the sentiment of 
family forms a contrast with our lower self, as well 
as with the world's apparent law. This sentiment 
cannot be qualified otherwise than as a sacred mad- 
ness. What more mad than to suffer from another 
man's pain.^ That is an extravagance, an aberra- 
tion. No one could justify it in face of the 
practical, calculating sense, personal in the extreme, 
that makes the basis of this world's law. 

The law of the world, the pillar of the edifice, 
without which — at least, so it seems to us — every- 
thing would crumble in ruins about us, is the con- 
flict of interests, competition, the strict maintenance 
of personal rights. When we apply our acutest 
reasoning to affairs, we find no other issue. 

The spirit of family overturns all this. Instead 
of drawing to itself, it bestows; instead of selling 
for a price, it grants ; instead of taking vengeance, 
it pardons. Here the law of the stronger is to pro- 
tect, to guide, to care for the little ones. So it is 
not strange that there should be endless war be- 
tween the spirit of the family and the spirit of the 
world, and that the hearths and hearts of us all 



28 BY THE FIRESIDE 

should be their chosen battle-field. Hence the vacil- 
lations, the wrenching^ the ups and downs of our 
family life. But here^ too, lies what is most inter- 
esting about it. Nothing else in life is so alluring, 
so absorbing, as this struggle between the law of 
rivalry and the law of succour; nothing worthier of 
our attention than this series of lessons, forever for- 
gotten, forever repeated, through which, in spite of 
ourselves, we climb one by one the steps that sepa- 
rate the human brute from the brother. 

The family spirit is a touchstone of humanity's 
future, of that ideal realm of righteousness so far 
off from our present wretchedness, that even to hope 
for it needs the dauntless and patient faith counting 
on eons to remove the deepest-rooted obstacles. A 
mother's kiss has dedicated each of us to citizenship 
in that country. Making him the free gift of life 
and all that it contains, the mother says to her child, 
in the name of humanity: " Remember ! love as thou 
hast been loved, give as thou hast received ! " 

Thus we see the spirit of family as a spirit of 
cohesion, but of cohesion tending to extend itself 
endlessly. It reaches from our immediate con- 
temporaries . to our predecessors, from whom come 
our traditions, our inheritance, our customs and 



THE SPIRIT OF FAMILY 29 

ideas ; it binds us to posterity, whose interests are in 
our care. In a word, the family in the restricted 
sense is incorporated in the family in the large 
sense. It comes from it and leads to it by an irresist- 
ible movement, strikingly symbolised in the simplest 
genealogical tree. If we have but one father and 
mother, we have four grandparents, eight great- 
grandparents, and so back by increasing propor- 
tions. Through our ancestors we come from the 
crowd, through our descendants we return to it : how 
can it be indifferent to us ? 

A school where such facts are taught and learned, 
cannot be, as some blind theorists hold, an obstruc- 
tion to the public welfare; it is its strongest safe- 
guard. The family is, as it were, the cell of society 
and of the nation; we have nothing more depend- 
able on which to base our hopes, with which to cure 
our ills, through which to make our way out of the 
difficulties of the world of to-day. All the weighty 
social problems present themselves in the home, and 
have no solution anywhere if not there. How shall 
we have enough of the spirit of self-sacrifice to re- 
place the savage conflict of society by good under- 
standing, if we make no effort for good understand- 
ing with our own flesh and blood ? The desertion of 



30 BY THE FIRESIDE 

the family life is the desertion of the field of honour 
where the future must be conquered in noble strife. 
In the weakening of the bonds of family is the de- 
struction of all social bonds, for whom shall I call 
brother, if my own be estranged from me? The 
greater part of our public disaster comes from our 
neglect of private duty. 

We must fall back upon the family, upon the 
home life, the home virtues, the home joys, the reli- 
gion of the fireside. 



Ill 

TWO MAKE ONE 

THE tie of bloody which unites the mem- 
bers of a family^ derives from another 
tie^ a tie of choice, the result of attach- 
ment between two beings. Before the family, is 
the primordial fact of love. When a man and a 
woman agree to belong to each other, and to estab- 
lish a home, the lines of their destinies merge, and 
their essential interests become identical. Two 
make one is the foundation stone of the pact. 

From the beginning of the matter we are forced 
to deal with situations that are exceptional, but too 
numerous to be passed in silence. Whenever we 
speak at once of marriage and love, we are reminded 
that they do not of necessity dwell together. Why 
should we try to deceive ourselves? life proclaims 
the fact in every key. Before speaking of the 
normal marriage, we must think of the far more nu- 
merous marriages that are imperfect, mutilated or 
compromised. Truth seekers arrive at the heights by 

31 



32 BY THE FIRESIDE 

arduous paths^ and man's salvation lies in seeing life 
as it is^ and illumining its dark corners with light 
from above. 

One cause for the bad result of many marriages 
of to-day is in the manner of their arrangement. 
Too many homes are established like those com- 
mercial and industrial enterprises where the busi- 
ness is set up in advance of the demand. Provided 
there is some correspondence of taste and education, 
some harmony of sentiment, a little growing esteem 
and the best intentions to please, in due time, it 
would seem, love cannot fail to come. 

We should be quite inhuman not to wish those 
well who marry under such conditions, and in a 
multitude of cases it seems the only course. Young 
people are obliged to accommodate themselves as 
best they can to numerous duties and difficulties; 
with the best disposition in the world, the desire to 
do right, the noblest and most upright sentiments, 
they are sometimes forced to temporise. They 
marry, looking for love to come afterward; they 
make ready for it, as the Alsatian peasant makes 
ready on his roof the nests for those beloved fore- 
runners of spring, those bearers of good fortune to 
their hosts — the storks. Often the storks accept 



TWO MAKE ONE 33 

the invitation; often^ too^ they pass unheeding^ to 
carry the happiness elsewhere; and never does any 
one know why they alight or why they pass on. So 
it is with this anticipated love ; it comes or it comes 
not. Why.^ That is a mystery. 

No matter; whether it comes or not^ from the 
moment when two people take upon themselves vows 
to share lif e^ their interests^ their risks^ their reputa- 
tion, everything that is theirs, is theirs in common. 
And this is true not only in the households where^ 
though love be lacking, there is a spirit of cordial- 
ity^ frank friendliness and mutual regard, but also 
in divided households. Perhaps in these it should 
be most frequently recalled. The husband and wife 
are one. He who wrongs the one, wrongs the other, 
and if they dispute, are jealous^ scornful or irrita- 
ting, each does himself the injury he inflicts. 

It seems as if there must be in human intelligence 
some serious obstacle to the recognition of this 
simple truths for from the beginning of the world it 
has been everywhere and endlessly repeated, yet 
scarcely any one deigns to pay it the slightest heed. 
The oldest tradition which states that two make one, 
is the tradition of Paradise, and the first couple pro- 
ceeded at once to forget the truth. By a deplorable 



34 BY THE FIRESIDE 

proceedings which has become a sort of hereditary- 
vice of the stronger sex^ Adam casts his fault upon 
the God-given woman^ not perceiving that he thus 
reproaches God over the shoulders of Eve. True, 
in the sequel, the daughters of Eve have often ap- 
propriated Adam's device; it is long since it has 
appertained specially to one sex. Sorry inheritance, 
abominable tradition, surviving all changes of man- 
ners and customs ! It often prevents husband and 
wife from understanding each other, pardoning 
each other's mistakes and insufficiencies, atoning 
for each other's faults. By accumulating griev- 
ances all along the route, two people who once 
esteemed each other, and very likely began by loving 
each other, after years of life together, end as open 
adversaries or irreconcilable enemies. 
V Two make one. It must be said on waking in the 

morning, and repeated at each little incident of the 
day as well as in the serious crises of life. 

Two make one — before the world, which gen- 
erally embraces husband and wife in one judgment, 
without taking account of the details of their dif- 
ferences. 

Especially two make one before the children. 
When parents appear to their children as people of 



TWO MAKE ONE 35 

opposing views^ wills and tastes^ and different ideals 
of life^ the home education is no longer possible. 
One undoes what the other achieves, and the family 
edifice, racked and shaken from its foundation^ falls 
in ruins about parents and children together. 
Whatever may be your differences of opinion or de- 
sires, your peculiar fashions of looking at life, your 
moral and religious convictions, the thing most need- 
ful is to present yourselves before your children as 
one ! Otherwise, through the breach opened in the 
joints of your union, and between your tendencies 
straining in opposite directions, disobedience, rebel- 
lion and the lawlessness of these young wills 
will rush in like a torrent, and submerge you. And 
what shall we say of parents who submit their cause 
to the judgment of their children, even the yoimg 
ones ; plead against each other before them, repudi- 
ate responsibilities, make comparisons and mutual 
accusations.^ In such cases any triumph is a de- 
feat; judge, attorneys and all concerned lose the 
case. 

If your consort is lacking in wisdom, in thought- 
fulness, in moderation of judgment or conduct, try 
to help him remedy this. But if he prove inacces- 
sible to your efforts, your example, even your devo- 



36 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tion, only one expedient is left you — to have for both 
of you the qualities he lacks. I should not like to 
have this observation taken for one of those beauti- 
ful theories so easy to formulate but absolutely im- 
possible to apply. I am transcribing here a lesson 
from life, the experience of people whom I have 
seen in the act, who, under circumstances excep- 
tionally difficult and sometimes intolerable, have 
seemed to me to resolve most successfully the 
problem presented to so many whose lives have made 
irreparable shipwreck. 

We are entering here a world of personal suf- 
fering and moral torture that has not its like. In 
certain cases the wrong is too evidently on one side 
for there to be the shadow of a doubt about it ; even 
if the other may be justly reproached, the cause is 
generally the deeper wrong. We must face the dis- 
tressful spectacle of two beings held together by 
bonds which perhaps the birth of children has 
strengthened, yet incapable of moral association. 
The best intentions of the one always thwarted, her 
most generous efforts made fruitless; her life har- 
assed, darkened, soiled sometimes by the constant 
and contaminating intrusion of a will that respects 
nothing and stops at no littleness or injustice: ac- 



TWO MAKE ONE 37 

cusations to bear in whose face she is reduced to 
silence, like a criminal^ because defence would be 
only a worse evil .... no words^ no fantastic 
imaginings will ever sound to the circle of some do- 
mestic hells ! 

And even here^ two make one^ not only through 
the universal law which visits upon the innocent the 
sins of the guilty^ but through the fact of the primi- 
tive union. It is true we have divorce^ that heroic 
measure for desperate situations; but divorce^ even 
when it seems the sole possible issue^ is an end^ not a 
solution. No law^ no advocate^ no judicial process 
can blot out the common past: husband and wife, 
even separated, preserve mutual interests of dignity 
and feeling. Divorce is like surgical operations; 
the most successful leaves its scars behind. Divorce 
in attempting to loose the conjugal knot demon- 
strates its firmness, its inextricable entanglement; 
after its fashion it establishes the fact that two 
make one. 

* * * * * 

Let us enter now a land more cheerful and smiling, 
and turn our eyes toward households where a thor- 
ough understanding and harmony more or less per- 
fect have been established. And let it be remarked 



38 BY THE FIRESIDE 

that such harmony has nothing fortuitous or spon- 
taneous about it. Nourished by good will and pa- 
tience_, it ripens under skies that are not always 
cloudless. There may have been love at first sight, 
but such love often has along with the nature of 
lightning its brief duration. Time must pass be- 
fore harmony is attained. Home lessons in this 
art are indispensable. Their price must be paid, 
and it is sometimes very high. Why do people not 
speak of this matter? Is there anything in life 
more interesting or more essential to know ? 

Are not the bald realities of domestic life, its 
daily difficulties and the efforts made to resolve 
them, a worthier subject of consideration than hyp- 
ocritical or at best superficial conventionalities ? I 
think we render young people a poor service in con- 
cealing from them what life really is. And this 
life, with all its complications, is finer than the fan- 
tastic idyl. The myth of the honeymoon has a par- 
ticularly disastrous effect; it is likely to make us 
begin with dissatisfaction what is called the pro- 
saic life of every day. It were better to make good 
prose, putting into it somewhat of soul and poetry. 
No, the accord of two wills is neither easy nor 
swift. It is not bestowed with the engagement 



TWO MAKE ONE 39 

ring, or with the bridegroom's gift. It must be ac- 
quired and conquered, like everything of real 
worth. Like artistic faculty and moral strength, 
it demands constant cultivation, and even those who 
once attain it may gradually lose it from lack of 
care. 

A preliminary condition for a good alliance is a 
common ground. When two people are determined 
to reach each other across walls, hedges and ditches, 
they risk scratches and rents and the falling through 
of their purpose. It is neither sordid interest nor 
narrowness of mind that would dissuade us from 
allying ourselves in quarters too remote, but simply 
common sense; in order to arrive at good under- 
standing, it is wise to diminish in advance the 
chances of conflict. How should we predict a peace- 
ful future for a young couple coming out of atmos- 
pheres so different that the same newspaper cannot 
be tolerated in both.^ We demand much of human 
amiability and fairness, when we expect them to be 
exercised continually between people whose stand- 
ards are diametrically opposite. Too often our sons 
and daughters receive educations that embroil them 
in advance. Beyond a certain age, there is no longer 
imderstanding between brothers and sisters, so con- 



40 BY THE FIRESIDE 

trary have their conceptions of life become^ and so at 
variance are the principles and beliefs with which 
in one way or another they have been indoctrinated. 

The man and the woman should be educated for 
each other. They should not receive an identical 
training — that would be the acme of absurdity — ^but 
their educations should converge and lead them by 
suitable roads toward a common ground. This com- 
mon ground once reached, and the marriage made, to 
strengthen the tie and give it endurance, each must 
needs renounce much that is personal. No associa- 
tion is possible without the spirit of sacrifice and 
mutual concession. La vie a deux is nourished by 
compliance, tolerance, and the perpetual gift of 
self. After having said ''I" from the beginning, 
each must learn to say "we;" after going his own 
gait, he must try keeping step. 

One of the gravest heresies in marriage is the 
idea ingrained in our very brain fibre, that for two 
wills to follow the same direction together, one must 
command and the other obey, and the law, in order 
to forestall any clashing of authority, has given the 
supremacy to the man by naming him the head. 
But isn't this one of those numerous fictions of 
which reality disposes at pleasure.^ 



TWO MAKE ONE 41 

To my notion the question of any such supremacy 
is not legitimate^ and should never be raised. But 
if it is raised, it finds its solution not on legal 
but on psychological ground ; it is resolved in favor 
of the more energetic, the more prudent or the more 
wilful of the two. It is a very complex question and 
baffles all calculation. Do not flatter yourself that 
you shall gain the ascendancy through intelligence : 
if you have to do with a companion who is unseeing 
and obstinate, you will be infinitely more sensitive 
to his obstinacy than he to your reasonableness, and 
it is quite possible that he will presently be ruling 
you from the height of his incapacity. When the 
question of ascendancy has presented itself from 
the beginning, and there has been strife as to which 
should lead, the matter generally ends in the victory 
of one, and the authority remains with him from 
that time on. The other follows with docility, and 
if he never again raises the question of leadership, 
all goes well. If, however, he shows signs of having 
a mind of his own, the situation is compromised; 
he is treated as an insurgent, or refuge is taken be- 
hind the accusation, *' You no longer love me V* 

The state of things we have last described is 
practically the commonest, and sometimes it is sue- 



42 BY THE FIRESIDE 

cessful. There are happy households that are au- 
tocracies; the sceptre rests in the hands of king or 
queen^ the government is paternal^ the subjects are 
satisfied and peace reigns. But in how many cases 
is it not otherwise ! The allies succeed only in op- 
pressings recriminating^ thwarting or silencing each 
other. Even where none of these disadvantages 
arise^ where the government rests on the legitimate 
supremacy of strength^ intelligence^ nobility of 
heart, never condescending to a rule of f ear, obsti- 
nacy or, worst motive of all, sensuality, even then 
this government is not ideal. 

The equal dignity of man and wife makes us con- 
ceive as an inferior estate this domestication of one 
by the other. It seems little conformable with this 
dignity, that one of them should say, even on the 
plea of superior qualities : ^' We two — that is I! " 

Law and authority seem to us impersonal, things 
above individual beings. When there is perfect 
harmony, no one knows who commands or who 
obeys. The two advance together like the wings 
of a bird, unconscious as to which is directing the 
flight. Harmony does not mean the subjection of 
one by the other, nor even the sharing of influence, 
husband and wife each intrenched behind his f ron- 



TWO MAKE ONE 43 

tiers and his capacities; harmony is joint submis- 
sion to reason^ justice and truth. The question is 
not who commands, but what commands the situa- 
tion. That the two are of unequal intelligence and 
foresight makes not the slightest difference; they 
need each other, and the only concern from which 
each should be entirely relieved, is that of being in- 
dividually in the right and carrying the day. < 

One of the dangers that threaten the monarchic 
imion is the disappearance of the monarch. A 
woman whose intelligence has not been exercised 
in the direction of domestic affairs, loses her wits 
when she loses her husband. Accustomed to obey, 
she does not know how to take the initiative, but is 
frightened at the first responsibility, and her fate is 
to fall into the hands of whoever stands ready to di- 
rect her. A man, too, who has seen the world only 
through the eyes of his wife, can make nothing of 
it without her. The two ought so to be associated 
that one can replace the other at need. 

Moreover, as we go through life, is it a tractable 
subordinate whom we most need, or an ally capable 
of offering us support when we weaken and resist- 
ance when we go wrong? The most precious re- 
source we have in this world of turmoil is a close 



44 BY THE FIRESIDE 

alliance with a will dependable and friendly, and 
we should count no cost in forming it and fostering 
it. Then one becomes the refuge of the other. One 
of the consolations of existence is to have near us 
some one to whom we may confide everything, as 
though he were ourself. He penetrates the inner 
solitude where we ponder grave questions and bear 
heavy responsibilities, and we are glad that all the 
burdens are no longer on our shoulders. Certain 
natures, however, seem more disposed to serve us 
than to second us, but they must not be left to this 
tendency to abdication; on the contrary we should 
waken their personality, rouse them to wish to make 
it tell. So we may lead each other on to mutual aid 
and confidence. Some such initiation is necessary 
between husband and wife, and any pain there may 
be in it is generously compensated in the end. 

It is to the highest advantage of both that each 
should be kept frankly informed as to everything 
concerning their mutual interests, material or spir- 
itual, and that each should bear part of the respon- 
sibility of these things. Especially should perfect 
sincerity be fostered and encouraged by each one's 
mode of speech, and the manner in which he receives 
the other's confidences. There are husbands and 



TWO MAKE ONE 45 

wives who have put an end to all frank understand- 
ings by their narrow-mindedness and their unpleas- 
ant remarks. Man's sincerity should never be put 
too rudely to the test, it needs encouragement 
and most indulgent welcome. He who rebuffs it by 
inhospitality^ is likely to frighten it from his house. 
Even if there is surprise at learning certain things, 
and if what is disclosed cannot always be ap- 
proved, at least the candour should be acknowl- 
edged. With honesty and kindness on both sides, 
it is always possible to find a way out of our difficul- 
ties; but the moment one knows fear in the pres- 
ence of the other, or prefers to conceal his senti- 
ments for the sake of peace, the union has received 
a hard blow. Then, built by their own hands, be- 
tween these two who ought to understand each other, 
there rises a wall that grows forever more and more 
impenetrable. Under the same roof and at the 
same table it separates one from the other, cutting 
off all real communication. Many a man comes to 
regret having left his wife in ignorance of things 
upon which his prosperity, his health or his honour 
depended, but few husbands and wives ever regret 
having kept each other informed. How many mis- 
fortunes has this one habit not warded off ! Hus- 



46 BY THE FIRESIDE 

bands and wives must share frankly life and all that 
it brings. And let neither withhold his own con- 
fidence while demanding the confidence of the other ; 
the advance should come from both sides, heartily 
and loyally. 

Those who do not follow this course, know not 
what they do. In all the trying events of life they 
become for each other a cause of unhappines^s and 
a source of strife, and every such event shows them 
their isolation by uncovering their mutual dissimula- 
tions. The burdens are thus made heavier, the evils 
worse. Oh, the pity of the troubles that make dis- 
cord between those who ought to bear them together ! 
On the other hand, what a resource when two make 
one, and can count upon each other absolutely ! No 
matter what happens, they bear it with one effort, 
saying to each other, " Thy pain is my pain." There 
is no thought of mutual accusation. Each regrets 
the faults of the other as though they were his own, 
and tries loyally to atone for them. Where harmony 
is lacking, every difficulty that presents itself is like 
an enemy with inside information; where harmony 
exists, the stronghold is well guarded, each is at his 
post. To work together, fight together, suffer to- 
gether, never to find one's self shut out when he 



TWO MAKE ONE 47 

needs to be calmed or encouraged; to walk abreast, 
like comrades in arms — how good it makes life! 
what courage it gives us! The farther on we go, 
the more closely allied we feel ; all the common past 
binds us together. And when this harmony is once 
experienced, it becomes the most cherished thing in 
the world ; everything else is secondary. How often 
have I heard such words as these, spoken from hearts 
attuned to it: " Come what may, so long as we two 
remain of one mind ! " 

On these serene heights where hearts belong to 
one another and are sure of one another for ever, 
we come nearest to understanding love. But who 
really knows it — the divine guest, sweeter than hap- 
piness, lovelier than youth, stronger than death? 
We shall never fathom its depths. In our spring- 
time we search for it, and we believe we have f oiuid 
it when a certain fervent sympathy, a certain tender 
ardour, tells us that another is dear to us, is cherish- 
ed in our heart. But this is only the beginning of 
love, and often this spring-flower falls early, bear- 
ing no fruit. How many such blossoms, withered 
by heat, chilled by frost, or torn by the tempest, 
strew the pathway of life! Poor germs of love, 
fallen into hearts too hard or too selfish to give 



48 BY THE FIRESIDE 

them nourishment I it is they that teach us the fra- 
gility of love^ its ephemeral beauty. I am not chid- 
ing them, only pitying them, as we pity everything 
that dies in the morning of its life. 

We are too familiar with these unions where love, 
dying early, sleeps forgotten in a hidden corner 
of the memory, like the wedding-dress and orange 
blossoms in some remote chest. We end by believing 
that it must be so, that it is the law of life. 

Let us lift our hearts to something more lasting, 
to a more tenacious love, not ending wdth the roses 
but faithful, deep-rooted and abiding, a love that 
braves the tempests and fears no frosts. It is not 
at all like a pretty child, full of caprice and half- 
rebellious ; it is a rough and ready comrade, not in- 
different to fine weather, but known for what it is, 
and proven in dark days. It knows how to suffer, 
to pardon and to endure. It does not hang upon a 
ray of sunshine or the colour of a lock. It has no 
age, or rather, like good wine, age mellows it. As 
the delicious German proverb has it — "Alte Liebe 
rostet nichi" old love never rusts. 

Let us linger a little while in its company — where 
should we fare better ? — and compare this love con- 
secrated by a lifetime, with the love of youth. 



TWO :^1AKE ONE 49 

When we are youngs why are we in love? For 
there are always reasons^ and is it not one of the 
sweetest things in the world to tell them over? 
They say that love is blind. That only means that 
he does not gaze out of ordinary eyes. If he doesn't 
see what we see^ he does see what we don't. He sees 
with inner eyes. In youth we are drawn toward one 
another and subdued by mysterious forces; but 
along with the inexpressible and indefinable^ are 
certain motives which we do perceive and acknowl- 
edge. We are in love with one another for grace, 
for strength, for kindness of heart, wit_, vivacity, 
freshness^ the profound light of the eyes, all the 
charm that God has put into that fragile flower, rose- 
ate in the light of heaven and the smiles of earth, 
that we call youth. We have reason for being in 
love and for never tiring of telling why. 

But if it is given two people to love each other 
long, the " why " of love changes, and the com- 
parison of the two reasons is full of beauty — the 
reason of youth and that of manhood or old age, the 
" why " under the snow of apple-blossoms, and the 
" why " under the snows of the years. Now we love 
each other for past suffering, for common toil, for 
the lines in each other's faces that are the writings 



50 BY THE FIRESIDE 

of our history, for faults pardoned, for all our mem- 
ories, bright or sad. We love each other in our 
children and grandchildren, and besides all this, we 
love each other because we were young together and 
each recalls to the other his youth. 

Those who have known this love all along the 
changeful ways of life, have possessed the priceless 
treasure that is earth's best gift. If they are poor, 
in this one thing they are richer than all other goods 
could make them. Even if they must walk alone 
from this time on, and weep beside graves, I would 
say to them, " You are happier than those who have 
not known this love." And if I were to make a wish 
for friends and strangers alike who may be read- 
ing here, I should say: " Whoever thou art, I wish 
that thou mayst love and be loved so." And al- 
though we are far from having always the love we 
deserve, I should add : " See that thou be worthy of 
such love ! " 



IV 

FATHERHOOD— MOTHERHOOD 

MAN proposes and God disposes. The 
profound truth of this old formula of 
religious wisdom is most apparent to 
me when I brood on that mystery of life whose 
guardians we are. Our fathers bequeath it to 
us, and we hand it down to our sons, but though 
we are the channel of its workings, to all of us it 
remains a mystery still. Nowhere else are our joys 
and sorrows more intimately concerned, nowhere 
else is our responsibility greater ; yet we are nothing 
but the medium of a higher power. Neither the 
profoundest faith nor the greatest intelligence has 
ever been able to compass the scope of this mystery 
or lay bare its heart. 

We do not realise this as we should. Long famil- 
iarity seems to have blmited our perception. We 
are fathers and mothers through custom, imitation 
or fatality, with no revelation of the nobility of these 
titles. We see humanity's outward show; its sacred- 



52 BY THE FIRESIDE 

ness escapes us; within most of us this divine per- 
ception never flowers. 

More than this, our eyes are arrested by the dross 
of existence, its miseries, its errors, its grossness; 
we quench our thirst with its dregs, and make its 
offal our bread. Such is the ignorance and blind- 
ness of our perverted hearts, that the sacred springs 
of life have become perhaps the region where the 
most crimes and abominations are committed. We 
have so profaned the pure, brought the honourable 
into disrepute, that many have thought to reach a 
higher degree of virtue by renouncing forever that 
dignity which no other can equal, whose pure ef- 
fulgence has its origin from God Himself — the 
dignity of fatherhood, the dignity of motherhood. 

To become a father or a mother not simply by 
instinct and nature but by liberal consent of soul, to 
transform into a bond of heart and mind the bond 
of outward fatalities, to ally ourselves with that 
Purpose which has willed us to owe life one to an- 
other, is to live deeply, largely, almost to participate 
through a new birth in a higher form of life. 
* -x- ^ -x- * 

True paternity is no)t a matter of one lifetime ; it 
is long preparing. Is it not part of that over- 



FATHERHOOD— MOTHERHOOD 53 

shadowing foresight which everywhere cares for 
the future^ makes all things work together, each in 
its place ? * 

We have no right to forget that the future comes 
forth from among us ; to do so is to drop out of the 
human brotherhood. The conduct of every man has 
its influence on the fate of his descendants. He does 
not only impress his trace on the shifting sand of his 
own rapid days, he impresses it on the faces and 
hearts of generations unborn; his way of life de- 
termines in advance the essential features of their 
constitution, their thought, their character. La Fon- 
taine's old man planting his trees says : " My grand- 
nephews will owe this shade to me,'' and we thank 
him for his thoughtfulness, his far-seeing benev- 
olence. By-and-by, long after he has disappeared, 
the trees he planted will remain. Above the heads 
of laughing children, over the wearied limbs of 
sleeping wayfarers, they will stretch their protect- 
ing branches, and the old man is happy because of 
the good he will do through them. Let us take to 
ourselves this lesson of far-reaching benevolence. 
We all have excellent reason for concerning our- 
selves with the good or evil that we assure our suc- 
cessors through our habits of life, our defects and 



54 BY THE FIRESIDE 

our virtues. No man lives to himself. The maxim 
is of universal application^ to be verified in all hu- 
man relationships; but how rigorously does it ap- 
ply to heredity ! All that we do and all that we are, 
leaves its trace in the heritage we prepare for our 
children. As touching words as I have ever heard^ 
and as wide in import^ were those which Pasteur, 
on the day of his jubilee at the Sorbonne, made 
sacred to the memory of his parents, when he said, 
'*! thank you for what you were." 

We are not dealing with theories more or less 
arbitrary; we are putting our finger upon what is 
most positive. No more are we concerning ourselves 
with far-off chimeras or exaggerated precautions, 
but with the most direct and urgent practical wis- 
dom. All morality is summed up in the parental 
relation. It is the eternal law, the divine law 
graven in man's heart. 

Yet this law takes on a new positiveness when it 
is no longer possibility but actuality that is in ques- 
tion. Then strange surprises await us and unex- 
pected lessons; we experience things undreamt of 
before. There have been fathers and mothers as 
long as there has been a human race, yet each ex- 
periences sensations as novel as though an event had 



FATHERHOOD— MOTHERHOOD 55 

happened quite new in the world. It is useless to 
talk about it^ to try to give a foreshadowing of it; 
no one understands anything about it till the day 
when he himself is a father. How different is the 
school of life from all other schools, and how its 
teachings penetrate ! 

■X- -X- -Sf * -Jf 

Hitherto I have been speaking more of the father ; 
now I think rather of the mother — of the happy 
mother, whose child comes to find all things smiling 
for him, all made ready; of the sorrowful mother 
and of little ones wept over ere they are here. The 
whole question of humanity summed up in all its 
pathos, is a mother in want, awaiting the coming of 
her child. With what shall we clothe him? how 
receive him? will any one bid him welcome? How 
hard life is for some people, and how dark is the 
future ! — for those who have missed fortune, health 
or happiness; when the hearth is cold, the purse 
empty, or hearts are estranged ! Here is the shadow, 
and none in all creation is colder or more terrifying. 
Those in the light and warmth should never lose 
sight of this shadow. If maternity is sacred, if it 
marks the forehead with a celestial sign, if, rightly 
understood, it sums up all man owes to man, ought 



56 BY THE FIRESIDE 

it not first of all to open our hearts ? Should not 
happy motherhood remember imhappy motherhood ? 

In the cemeteries, sorrowing beside little graves, 
parents come to know other parents; there arises 
a fraternity of tears and death. I would ask for 
another also, a fraternity of birth. Out of love 
for the child to come, we want the world better, its 
life less polluted, hearts less hard ; for him we would 
level mountains, appease human wrath. No wish is 
more legitimate; let us transform it into deeds, make 
practical the sacred brotherhood of the human 
family, stretch out a succouring hand to the mothers 
who await in tears. 

So shall we prepare the way for more love among 
our children than there is among us. And giving 
this thought a broader scope, I would say that be- 
yond all this, the little guest awaited should draw 
us nearer to God and nearer to all men. Since he 
is coming, let us forgive those who have trespassed 
against us, and greet with smiles those who frown 
upon us ; let light glow in our faces and warmth on 
our hearths. Those whom God sends us should not 
come into the midst of disorder and disputes, and 
gloomy or wrathful faces. 



FATHERHOOD— MOTHERHOOD 57 

The Bible says the woman remembereth no more 
the anguish^ for joy that a man is horn into the 
world. For j oy that a man is born into the world ! 
In these few words there is a whole philosophy^ a 
whole religion. To forget one's pain because a 
man is born^ that is to acknowledge that life is good, 
that when a new being is admitted into it, we should 
rejoice. And this joy has resisted all pessimism 
and all disillusionment ; the saying of Jesus is ful- 
filled every day. The world is old, mankind is 
bowed down with burdens, the evil is prodigious; 
but every day, in one place and another, there is 
joy because a man is born. Does it not seem as if 
with each child of man a star rises to lighten our 
dark night, and that God sends him to say to us, 
"Take courage ! I am here. I think of you and 
your sorrows will have an end"? 

Meanwhile this little star is very pale and trem- 
bling — only a gleam in the shadow, a rushlight 
ready to flicker out. The first sentiment he inspires 
after joy is pity. What a spectacle is man now! 
He is naked, he is poor, he is infirm, he knows noth- 
ing, can do nothing. We may scarcely handle him, 
so fragile is he! But have no fear, little wanderer, 
raising thy cry like a supplication from some for- 



58 BY THE FIRESIDE 

gotten wayside! Thy need is thy triumph, thy 
feebleness is thy force. Thy poverty is an abyss, 
but thy mother's love and pity is as deep. In her 
arms thou shalt be a king. Soon, thanks to her care, 
thou shalt grow strong and smiling, with eyes like 
the spring sunshine, that lights up the gloomiest 
faces and the darkest corners. Tenderness will 
have transformed thee. Thou shalt be beautiful as 
a cherub, like a beautiful star, as old Homer says. 

What a centre of light and warmth is the child ! 
His cradle, little white boat, is like a symbol of 
peace in this world of turmoil: is there anything 
more peaceful to look upon than a child asleep? 
His little fists fast shut, his absolute security and 
perfect calm, recall to us this verse of HebeFs im- 
mortal dialect: 

Er schloft^ er schloft^ do liegt er wie^ne Grofy 
He sleepSy he sleeps^ lying there like a prince. 

There is much more in this charm of childhood 
than the innocent grace of an age not yet touched 
by the soil of earth; the child is the keystone of 
the arch, the divine symbol of hope, an ever fresh 
pledge given of God; in each curly head bursts 
again into bloom the infinite dream for whose real- 



FATHERHOOD— MOTHERHOOD 59 

isation the whole universe is built ; in each the sacred 
flame of hope rises once more from its ashes. It is 
true that each one of those in whom this beautiful 
promise is incarnate may mean little to but one 
person, niay mean little anyway. No matter ; in his 
time he has reminded us that the old strife for the 
good, the just, and the true, is never ending; that 
every hour recruits are born to lift once more the 
banner, to begin the assault afresh. After the lost 
battles, the discouragements and capitulations, when 
everything seems over, look away into the far depths 
of the distance, and see coming like waves of an 
ocean, the countless reserves of the future ! 

Obscurely we feel all this through our care for 
the child, through the sense of fatherhood and 
motherhood. To our mothers, we go through life 
surrounded by the light that illumined our childish 
faces; they always see us through this early en- 
chantment. If they could, they would keep us 
eternally young. As Joshua halted the sun over the 
plain of Gibeon, so they would arrest above us the 
smile of the morning. But since they can not check 
the changes of life, they shelter their dream in a 
changeless heart. Even luider the features of the 
degraded man the mother sees those of the innocent 



60 BY THE FIRESIDE 

child^ and for love of the child she pardons the man. 
It is nothing that we are big or old or ugly^ that our 
locks are thin and our faces careworn ; our mothers 
still picture us on their knees ; we have blonde ring- 
lets, and they are twenty. Lately at Geneva in com- 
pany with a man of seventy-five, I visited his mother 
who was ninety-three. She called him ** little one," 
and when he said " mamma/' I knew well it was his 
childish heart that spoke. The world oiFers nothing 
nobler than what is behind such little scenes. 

Thus we go through life, enveloped in our 
mothers' tenderness. They prepare a place for us, 
they receive us when we come, and never leave us 
after. For them what we were we remain. Age 
makes no change in us, time can do nothing, no 
more can death. To our mothers we are never 
dead. So the love of father and mother, that faith- 
ful and unalterable tenderness, is even the symbol, 
in this passing world, of the Eternal Goodness. 

The face of a parent is the first image of God 
disclosed to us. Later on, we sometimes think we 
see Him under forms disconcerting and terrible. 
Then we no longer recognise Him; the universe 
seems dismal, cold and hostile ; we succumb to pes- 
simism and sadness, the sadness of orphans or of 



FATHERHOOD— MOTHERHOOD 61 

children unloved. But we must keep the first im- 
pression; that is the true one. In order to live, we 
must believe in the sanctity of fatherhood and 
motherhood, in their symbolism of the fatherhood 
of God. 



A NURSERY OF MEN — PARENTS AND 
CHILDREN 

EVERY child is an epitome of the toil and 
pain of the past^ and in each sleeps a hope 
of the future. To make the pain bear 
fruit, to realise the hope, is the work of education, 
and education properly consists in drawing out of 
each one that for which he has material within him. 
Of all educational influences the most potent is 
that of the family. It begins at a time when school 
is but a distant possibility, continues while the 
school holds us, and persists after we leave it behind. 
Moreover, heredity, by the affinities and tendencies 
it gives, prepares the way for the impress of the 
family stamp, and predisposes us to receive it. The 
educational force in the family atmosphere is there- 
fore preponderant, for good or for evil. Without 
its aid, it is difficult to make the work of education 
lasting, while on its baneful and sinister side there 
is that in it to daunt the most resolute and the most 
devoted. Even though snatched in childhood from 



A NURSERY OF MEN 63 

contaminating surroundings^ the man has sometimes 
caught the contagion^ received the indelible brand. 
We who are teachers^ religious or secular^ have but 
an intermittent means; we arrive late^ when the 
bent is already confirmed^, and remain in touch with 
the child for a few years^ only to lose sight of him 
farther on. Our work may be compared to the con- 
structions of young bathers on the shore at low tide. 
See this fortress rising as the fruit of ardent toil. 
It has ramparts and towers^ moats and drawbridges. 
How ingenious and pleasing! The pity is that it 
is so ephemeral. In an hour the rising tide will be 
upon it with its levelling waters. The ramparts will 
sink^ the moats fill, the towers crumble away, and 
there will be, as there was before, sand, fine and 
compact, with not a ridge to betray the hand that 
wrought in it. 

This baneful influence happily has its counter- 
part. When one comes of sound stock, and has re- 
ceived at the very root of his being certain power- 
ful impulsions, it is vain to turn him aside and cor- 
rupt him later on ; you can never be sure that he is 
irrevocably won over to the evil. His conscience 
may waken, he may find himself again in his native 
air^ and then you will see the whole edifice of a per- 



64 BY THE FIRESIDE 

verse education crumble away in repentance and sal-" 
utary sorrow. Here is another reason for attach- 
ing great importance to the educational function of 
the fireside^ for conserving this basis on which all 
the rest depends. 

* * * * * 

Our educative influence is determined by what 
predominates in us. We communicate to children 
less of what we say than of what we are^ and if 
our moral path be crooked, it is useless to point out 
the straight and narrow way ; the child holding our 
hand walks as we walk. Thus the education of 
children begins with ourselves, and to guide another, 
we must be firm and clear-sighted. The first con- 
dition of education is stability. I might say au- 
thority, but with certain observations added, for 
there is need in our day and generation of inquir- 
ing what authority really is. The time has come 
to make it more vigorously felt in the family than 
the custom is at present, but before we begin to act, 
we should know on what it really rests. 

What is authority ? It is not a conventional right 
of parents for purposes of order and discipline, 
conferred by the law and ratified by custom and the 
church. Authority does not consist in such power j 



A NURSERY OF MEN 65 

that may be nothing but the right of might disguis- 
ed^ and, indeed^ in many households the authority 
of parents is exercised under no other form. They 
force obedience, or rather impose constraint^ by vir- 
tue of superior strength — so long as they possess it : 
as soon as the child's strength equals theirs^ rebel- 
lion breaks out. And notice that this state of affairs 
exists not alone among the vulgar^ where the symbol 
of authority is a blow or some other manifestation 
of physical force^ but wherever violence is used^ if 
only in words or in those spasms of authority more 
sensible sometimes and more evil in their results 
than blows. To rule children through the purse, by 
starvation, by fear of anything whatsoever, to crush 
out their originality and reduce them to spiritual 
and moral servitude, must not be taken for an exer- 
cise of authority. 

Authority is a free force of the soul, or it is noth- 
ing. We do not possess it from the simple fact of 
being fathers and mothers, it belongs only to those 
who have made themselves worthy of it. Authority 
consists in giving by one's attitude, his bearing, all 
that he does and says, an impression of reality, of 
verity, of uprightness, in a word, making manifest 
through his conduct the very laws of life. To order 



66 BY THE FIRESIDE 

people about^ to be loud and peremptory of speech, 
and to make imperative gestures, may be, after all, 
but an empty surface demonstration; under these 
arbitrary airs the insignificance of a petty soul and 
a vacillating conscience is often hidden. The whole 
thing is to be somebody, to be worth something, to 
realise speech in action. Parental authority is not 
merely a thing of the moment when advice or direc- 
tion is given ; it is a ceaseless influence of the moral 
contact, of the actions, of the whole life. Our chil- 
dren see us live. Without reference to our words, it is 
in what they see of our deeds, unravel of our motives 
and intentions, perceive confusedly of our moral 
standards, that our authority lies. There are 
parents in lowly life, little apt at formulating rules 
of conduct or condensing into doctrine the wisdom 
they display, incapable even of putting into correct 
speech what they believe to be just and right, 
parents who have perhaps rarely spoken commands 
or dictated conduct, who nevertheless, by the simple 
fact of their faithful, calm and righteous living, 
have had an extraordinary influence over their chil- 
dren. But every day we may see parents, makers 
of beautiful and excellent phrases, and others, as- 
tride their prerogatives, who yet have no hold on 



A NURSERY OF MEN 67 

the consciences of their children. The life is one 
things the sound of it is another^ and the child 
never mistakes the two. Force of character and 
power of life attract him; some hidden law urges 
him to follow those who walk uprightly. 

True authority is the best thing a child can en- 
counter at the beginning of his life. Thus the 
Scriptures summarise the morality of youth in this 
one commandment: Honour thy father and thy 
mother. 

To him who has some knowledge of the human 
hearty this is not an outward ordinance_, coming like 
a barrier to check the native indocility of youth; it 
is the expression of a higher need. In every child 
there are two beings^ a little insurgent, always ready 
to shake off the yoke^ who after all is the guardian 
of liberty, which so many things menace in the bud ; 
and a disciple, teachable, thirsting to attach himself 
to a master. Through what is best in us, we long 
to respect others. It is sweet to put our faith in 
some one superior, to look up to a model whom we 
may admire and follow. Something essential is 
lacking to him who in his youth found no one to 
reverence ; one of the noblest parts of his being has 
not received its proper nourishment, and is atro- 



68 BY THE FIRESIDE 

phied. Guided by his need of believing in some- 
one and following him^ the child finds his place, 
his true, modest child's place, almost of himself. 
Provided you, parents, are worthy of respect, and 
do not provoke him to insurrection by a harsh or 
irritating attitude, he is respectful and happy to be 
so, and your superiority, your authority over him, 
becomes the fundamental dogma of his existence. 
With a right-minded child, when he says papa and 
mamma, he says what is surest, most to be reverenced, 
least to be questioned in the world. It ought to be 
so, and when it is so it is a happy thing at once for 
the child, for the parents, and for society. What 
can he respect who has respected neither father nor 
mother.^ and what quality more priceless can be 
found in free citizens of a country whose supreme 
power is the law's, that is, the power of respect, 
than that they should have learned respect by fol- 
lowing the commandment: Honour thy father and 
thy mother ? 

^ -x- -x- -x- ^ 

Having thus qualified the essence of authority, it 

remains for us to note certain of its signs, certain 

actions through which it may appear, and others 

that obscure it or compromise it. I do not approve 



A NURSERY OF MEN 69 

of parental authority's being insistently in evidence, 
schoolmaster fashion; yet in remaining too long in- 
visible it risks self-destruction. In our day the rela- 
tions of parents and children have taken on a certain 
character of familiarity. Even vrhere the children 
are well brought up^ on neither side is there the old 
attitude of keeping the distance and putting every- 
body in his place in the hierarchy of the home. The 
fathers are not enthroned so high^ the children bow 
less low ; what characterises the relation at its best 
is a friendly cordiality. Our times demand this; 
paternal majesty has no more resisted them than has 
royal majesty; its temporal throne cannot be re- 
stored, and it is doubtful that this should be re- 
gretted. But to let the spirit of it perish would be 
a disaster. Let us be^ then^ so far as the happiness 
is given us, the friends of our sons and daughters, 
but let us love them well enough to preserve for our 
friendship a paternal stamp. Let us not be simply 
their good comrades, that would be rendering them 
a very poor service; and still less let us descend to 
being their servants. Comradeship in which our 
dignity is forgotten on both sides, makes the chil- 
dren lose the modesty salutary for their age ; but the 
subordination of father or mother goes further, per- 



70 BY THE FIRESIDE 

verting the moral sense of the young generation and 
warping its judgment. There are fundamentals 
which cannot be disturbed without threatening the 
whole edifice of family and of society^ bringing dis- 
order into minds and manners^ and entangling all 
human relationships. Now one thing essential for 
the child is to know that he is youngs and to keep 
his place of new-comer whose first need is to get his 
bearings^ inquire his way, and gain experience by 
the side of those who already possess it. If parents 
would always remember this, and not bear the child 
aloft, making a little tyrant of him ! and though he 
is their treasure, if only they would guard against 
saying it too often, so that he shall not come to 
think himself the jewel of which they are the case ! 
Yet such things are of e very-day occurrence, and 
they are ruinous to the home education. 

In certain countries there exists a very objec- 
tionable practice. The father of the family is 
served at table with all the choice bits, the children, 
and sometimes the mother even, having no share. 
However brutal this may be, it assigns the child 
a subordinate place, and puts the father squarely 
above him. And the results of this barbarous 
custom are sometimes better than those of an educa- 



A NURSERY OF MEN 71 

tion in which the parents deprive themselves of the 
necessary^ to assure their children the superfluous. 
The children rarely thank them for it. It seems 
to me that in their interest and out of love for them, 
we should never give children the first place. This 
is not the part of egoism, but of wisdom. They will 
thank us later on when they imder stand our motives. 
Nothing exacts greater clear-sightedness on our part 
than the exercise of self-sacrifice in behalf of our 
children; there is a fashion of it which does them 
more harm than hard-heartedness, and it is often 
through self-immolation that too kind and indulgent 
parents lose all hold upon their sons and daughters, 
■x- -x- ^ * -x- 

Parents have a very efficacious way of putting 
their dignity into relief and recalling it to the wan- 
dering attention of their children ; it is to treat each 
other with great consideration. They may be sure 
of the children's following the example, especially 
if they have seen nothing else from their earliest 
remembrance. The spirit which already prevails 
between the parents is destined to spread among the 
children. They have no difficulty in respecting a 
mother to whom their father gives all sorts of atten- 
tions ; and they never speak arrogantly to a father 



72 BY THE FIRESIDE 

for whom their mother always shows respect. I 
consider it one of the saddest lessons of family life, 
and one of the worst chastisements for us^ to hear 
our children repeat ill-sounding words that are 
echoes of our own voices. 

May I be permitted to speak here of the evil 
turns our nerves play us in this work of education? 
It is a very delicate subject^ I know^ for in our 
day nerves are the universal evil. I shall have cour- 
age^ however^ to lift my voice and declare that 
authority and dignity have their outward expression 
in serenity and moderation. As soon as nerves be- 
come involved^ the calmness vanishes^ and of mod- 
eration there is no longer question ; the best of men 
show their wrong side and make themselves ridic- 
ulous, that is to say, they lose a part of the very 
thing which makes them worthy of respect, and to 
respect them, nevertheless, would demand an amount 
of philosophy and charity unknown to childhood. 
In education there must be no nerves ! When our 
nerves take possession of us, the moment has come to 
vanish, or at least to be silent. Alas ! it is the very 
moment so many people choose for talking, for 
warning, exhorting and correcting their children ! 
For whole days they say little or nothing to them. 



A NURSERY OF MEN 73 

but all of a sudden^ under the impulse of their 
nerves^ they feel the need of far-reaching inquiries 
and general explanations. Pell-mell^ then^ every- 
thing is gone over. They deluge the children with 
words. It isn't the gentle dew^ with its refresh- 
ment^ but a truly diluvial downpour; can we blame 
the sufferer for opening his umbrella .^^ If he did 
only that^ the evil would be reparable ; but often he 
rebels^ he retorts^ and there arises — provoked by 
our own intemperance of speech — that lamentable 
thing called a family dispute. The conduct of edu- 
cation requires a calm and quiet mind. It is much 
like cultivating the fields. Do not sow your seed in 
a gale of wind, or in the heart of swirling snow, or it 
will be scattered to the four corners of earth. I sus- 
pect the education we attempt is too much infected 
with irritation and unrest; we lack tranquillity of 
spirit, and our life is void of the peace which is 
needful for the ripening of fruit. We must gird 
ourselves for reaction against the enervating and 
discouraging influences that conspire against us; 
with energy and resolution we must establish calm in 
our hearts and in our homes. And when our own 
supply of courage and firmness fails us, we must 
look upward for strength. The education least apt 



74 BY THE FIRESIDE 

to fail and the most incontestable authority^ have 
their source in laws which shelter the heads of the 
fathers as well as those of the children. The edu- 
cator no less than the sower needs to believe in the 
God of to-morrow; in that faith is his peace, his 
security, his unfailing strength. Let him lean upon 
it, so that he may not offer too fragile support to 
the young who lean upon him. 

***** 

Authority represents the profound law of life, 
the lessons of experience, the rights of tradition, the 
supremacy of the family and social imities over the 
novice who comes to take his place in them. But 
there is another right than that of the past and that 
of society or of the family ; it is the right of the in- 
dividual. And here we come to the point of looking 
out upon that world of unexplored regions and un- 
known riches, the inner life of childhood and youth. 

The question we meet now is not of guiding and 
governing our children, or manoeuvring them after 
the fashion of battalions, it is the question of know- 
ing them, understanding them, appreciating them, 
letting them breathe and live; and if we do not 
meet it, our authority, instead of being their refuge, 
overbears and destroys them. 



A NURSERY OF MEN 75 

What goes on in that land of mystery^ the hearts 
and minds of our children ? What are they thinking 
about^ these little guests of our table and our fire- 
side? We hold their dainty heads between our 
hands_, and clasp them against our hearts_, but too 
many of us do not know or suspect what is germinat- 
ing there^ and it is a great pity ! 

Every human being should be studied^ individual- 
ised; the personal traits that make of each of us 
some one who cannot be replaced by another^ must be 
respected. Where shall our existence be perceived^ 
our temperament and our distinctions, if not in the 
family ? Make us conform to the laws that concern 
the common good — nothing is more just; but why 
ignore and neglect us otherwise? why extinguish 
within us what gives us our reason for being? For 
if we are here just as we are^ if there is such great 
diversity in types of men^ if from a common stock 
there come offshoots so unlike_, doubtless it is be- 
cause the Master of Life has willed it so^ and we 
should respect His work. 

The family is the very place for this delicate 
mission^ for in its ways there is nothing summary 
or official, and its law is gentle and flexible^ with 
possibilities of adaptation to each individual^ not 



76 BY THE FIRESIDE 

simply a law of authority, but a law of love and far- 
seeing benevolence. In order to discern the thou- 
sand and one idiosyncrasies of a child's nature, one 
must be a father or a mother, must have received 
with the sacred parental dignity the intuition and 
divination whose secret only the hearts of parents 
know. Outside the family, education is got in the 
gross, within it, in detail. Here each one is treated 
and loved in his fashion, and it is quite the only way 
of being treated justly and kindly. I am entering 
here on very delicate ground, I know. I fear to 
make our shortcomings apparent, in describing 
what ought to be and not always is. Can I forget 
that there are children unhappy, morally ill-treated.'* 
I am not speaking of inhuman conditions, I am 
speaking of the best families, so-called, but of 
families where the methods of child training are too 
drastic; where under pretext of justice and impar- 
tiality, young heads and young hearts are passed 
under a pitiless level; where the grown people do 
not know how to respect a child's individuality, but 
train and shape him as we train hunting-dogs and 
shape shoes. In such homes there are sore trials 
and sometimes unspeakable tortures for the excep- 
tional child. He is ridden over roughshod, his legit- 



A NURSERY OF MEN 77 

imate tastes are thwarted, even his conscience is 
offended. 

I am not speaking in behalf of the headstrong,' the 
egotistical, the black sheep of the family; I am not 
offering an excuse for rebellion; but I am plead- 
ing for certain natures that are exceptional and — 
I don't deny it — difficult, in which nevertheless pre- 
cious qualities lie dormant. The world, that hasn't 
time to occupy itself with the individual and form 
him to his own advantage, passes its great wheels 
over all; but this peremptory method, excellent for 
suppressing irregularities that are intolerable in so- 
ciety, and whose rational treatment is extirpation, 
threatens to warp from the outset choice natures 
guilty of nothing but originality. Let the family 
distinguish them, then, these little beings who are 
not like everybody else; they have more need than 
the others that we should love and cherish them, 
interpret their singularities with indulgence and 
sympathy. Take care! this awkwardness, this 
shyness and timidity, these disconcerting fashions 
some little fellow has, are perhaps the formless 
cocoon whence one day shall burst forth an in- 
comparable butterfly! 



78 BY THE FIRESIDE 

What we oftenest run athwart in the child^ and 
daily offend, is his seriousness. I should not be 
astonished if this remark surprises more than one 
reader^ for there is^ alas ! an impervious wall be- 
tween the state of mind of most adults and that of 
a child. We do not take the child seriously. It is 
assumed that what concerns him is insignificant, 
that it is limited to certain unimportant events, 
things in miniature, which take place down where 
he is, far from those heights where the only things 
of consequence happen. "That is childish, a baga- 
telle, a mere nothing," we continually say. Oh, 
shortsighted creatures that we are, dull of sense 
and narrow of vision! How with our heavy tread 
do we crush the gracious blossoms of that garden 
of God called the heart of a child! We take our- 
selves seriously, our affairs are the affairs of mo- 
ment, the child's are mere puerilities and play. 
But we deceive ourselves. No one is more serious 
than the child. Not the merchant over his ac- 
counts, the judge pronouncing sentence, the sage 
in meditation, or the faithful at prayer, is more 
serious than he. We might even make a saying: 
Serious as a child. 

See his great, frank eyes, fixed on us, drinking 



A NURSERY OF MEN 79 

in our words^ saying that they have confidence, that 
they believe, and then go compare them with all crea- 
tion, material and spiritual. You will find nothing 
to put beside those eyes. It is not without signifi- 
cance that Christ's declaration, " Verily I say unto 
you except ye turn and become as little children, ye 
shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven," 
was made in the presence of scribes and Pharisees, 
apostles and disciples, of all that is most solemn 
and imposing in the world of grown men, as well as 
all its old hypocrisies and venerable trickeries. 

Let us take children seriously, not make sport of 
them, deride them, or laugh at what astonishes them, 
raises their indignation or melts their hearts. Think 
of this contrast — on one side the world, stupend- 
ous, bewildering, and in so many ways evil, cor- 
rupt, appalling; on the other side, the virgin eyes 
of the child. Think of it and be pitiful. Should 
it not take away some of our grown-up pride and 
cure us of our frivolity? Listen to this story: It 
is an old man's tale, but in the depths of his heart 
he still felt his childish wounds. 

" I had committed one of those faults so natural 
to children and so little malicious in intent, however 
grave. In the presence of the family and some 



80 BY THE FIRESIDE 

friends I had been dealt with firmly, as the oiFence 
merited, and in the face of my fault, acknowledged 
and bitterly regretted, I had burst into sobs. Then 
I was sent away. As I closed the door, still over- 
whelmed by what had happened, I heard behind me 
a great burst of laughter. Then I fled and hid in 
the farthest corner of the house, and wept my little 
heart out, that laugh had made me suffer so. From 
that day I lost the naive confidence it is so well to 
keep as long as we may; and over and over again I 
asked myself the question, ** Are big people, then, 
not serious } *' 

How many children could tell a like story ! 
•Jf -x- -x- * * 

I just used the word confidence. If obedience 
responds to authority, confidence responds to kind- 
ness. To obtain obedience, awaken confidence — all 
education lies in this. Let our children obey us and 
revere us, but let them never fear to open their 
hearts to us. Above all things, let us give them no 
cause to doubt us, or to lose confidence in us. It is 
a great misfortune to cease believing in God; the 
misfortune of no longer being able to believe in one's 
father and mother is almost as great. 

There is one sure refuge on earth, where we ever 



A NURSERY OF MEN 81 

find open arms and untiring ears^ where our joys 
and sorrows alike have their echo, a refuge we never 
seek in vain, nor leave unconsoled — the heart of a 
mother or a father. Let us maintain its reputation 
and be for our children a gracious sanctuary, a high 
and tranquil retreat. It is so good to have a shelter 
for our heads, to know where to go to tell the tale of 
what is weighing on our hearts. To guard our sons 
and daughters from evil, or at least to maintain at 
the very core of their being an ally against all con- 
taminating touch and harmful counsel, let us win 
their confidence when they are little, cultivate it as 
they grow up, and preserve it always. There is no 
talisman more magical, no better means of over- 
coming the difficulties of education that arise from 
the changing age of our children. As time goes on, 
authority is modified perforce. If you desire to 
educate your child into freedom, your authority 
must be felt less and less, and at last efface itself 
altogether. Confidence, on the contrary, must per- 
sist. How many parents do not comprehend this ! 
Excellent at educating nurslings, and guiding child- 
hood, they continue to treat their children the same 
at all ages; they steal away their power of initia- 
tive, stifle their aspirations, and by the very act of 



82 BY THE FIRESIDE 

clinging to a passing authority^ let perish a con- 
fidence which might have been constant. Nor is it 
enough to be resigned to seeing the will and personal 
force of our children establish themselves^ we should 
welcome with joy all the signs of budding character, 
and so far as it can possibly be wise_, give free play 
to the spirit of independence and enterprise. Do 
not hinder the man's being formed in the child. To 
the somewhat feminine education of tenderness and 
solicitude, of vigilance perhaps over-anxious and re- 
strictive of liberty, let the virile education succeed, 
that education which to forge and temper the forces 
of children, cultivates their resistance and their 
combativeness, and does not flinch in face of their 
fatigues, their trials, their difficulties, even their 
danger. It is at this price that men of mark are 
fashioned, one of whom is worth a thousand lives of 
routine, mummified and sheep-like. And to mould 
such character with its stamp of originality — the 
sort of man whose need is felt on all sides — nothing 
else equals family life, especially when it is simple 
and laborious. Here are the normal conditions, the 
favourable atmosphere. A true and solid home ed- 
ucation is like those happy hillsides which grow 
famous vines. It produces good men as the hills 



A NURSERY OF MEN 83 

produce good wine^ and gives them their smack of 
the soil_, and a smack of the soil becomes an up- 
right man ; by it we perceive that he does not come 
from some common little shop^ but is a free child of 
the generous earth and of the sunshine of heaven. 

Humble and dear corner of the world^ modest fire- 
side where first appeared on the horizon of our souls 
the silhouettes of men and of things^ those who re- 
main most faithful to thee, who are proudest to rec- 
ognise in themselves thy characteristic stamp^ are 
the strong and fearless. They go through life com- 
batting^ illumining^ inspiring^ forgiving^ building; 
but they well know that the best they have they owe 
to a humble mother^ a brave father; and as one 
guards a treasure^ they preserve in the depths of 
their hearts the filial sentiment^ pure homage to the 
virtues of the sanctuary of home. 



VI 
BROTHERS AND SISTERS 

PUT into a bag some rough stones, and shake 
it so as to move them about generally ; after 
awhile the angles will wear off and the 
ridges be smoothed away. So the angularities of 
human character are rounded down by contact with 
others, and the family, in the relations of brothers 
and sisters, offers a striking example of the process. 
If we follow out the figure of the bag and the stones, 
we shall observe that it takes several stones to make 
the experiment successful, one alone might tear the 
bag. The moral of this very transparent apologue 
is, that to profit from mutual education requires 
numbers. 

This education among brothers and sisters joins 
forces admirably with the parental education, com- 
pleting it in the happiest fashion possible. We 
parents are either too severe or too lenient. If our 
superiority tends to make us overbearing, our in- 
dulgence betrays us, our sympathy disarms us. But 

84 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 85 

children are not quick to take umbrage among them- 
selves^ their forces being less unequal; and on the 
other hand, they have not the exaggerated senti- 
ments toward each other that parental love arouses. 
They have not yet what the Bible so expressively 
calls bowels of compassion. 

Everybody who has seen children at play and un- 
restrained, must have noticed the force of their im- 
pulses and the tenacity of their will. The stub- 
bornness of children, that inflexibility which would 
go straight to its end and suffer no hindrance or re- 
striction, is continually raising difficulties for 
parents. Between their wills, calm and tempered 
by heart and reason, and the impetuosity of childish 
desires, the struggle is too unequal, we have too 
much deliberation and too much aff*ection to resist 
these blind and obstinate young spirits; among 
themselves, however, they find their like. They tire 
out father or mother, win them over by blandish- 
ments; but among their equals such means do not 
succeed. Nothing is so headstrong and inflexible as 
a child, except another child. Let them untangle 
their aff*airs, and don't interfere except to prevent 
violence : they will always find a way out. Children 
practise among themselves a rigorous justice that 



86 BY THE FIRESIDE 

surprises and sometimes pains us; we wish they 
would be more indulgent^ less exacting in the matter 
of mine and thine^ more disposed to give way to 
each other^ readier to pardon; their quarrels 
sadden us and give us much concern. We love them 
equally^ and to have them divided and warring is 
like having one part of ourselves rise up against 
another; it is grievous to bear. And yet we must 
not for the sake of domestic tranquillity^ confiscate 
the children's prerogatives, hinder them from show- 
ing out quite independently what is in their hearts. 
These little men and women must needs accustom 
themselves to life in common, become used to the 
idea, so difficult to get into our egoistical brains, that 
others exist as well as we, and have the same rights. 

When one stone strikes another, fire results. 
When the human will, virgin and undisciplined, en- 
counters the barrier of other wills, it kindles, and 
the sparks fly. That these phenomena should be 
produced is indispensable : to hinder them is to put 
a drag upon life. Let your children learn among 
themselves the trade of human brotherhood, get 
there their experience of social law; it is salutary 
for brothers and sisters to be broken in together to 
the painful processes of tempering character. To 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 87 

correct an angularity^ nothing else is so efficacious 
as another angularity ; to reclaim an egoist^ nothing 
equals another egoist. When these young appren- 
tices to the art of sociability have dealt with one 
another awhile according to the law of retaliation^, 
which suits marvellously their quality of little prim- 
itives and savages ; when they have scrupulously ex- 
acted an eye for an eye and a tooth for a toothy their 
conscience has the vision of a higher form of justice. 
They perceive that if men were to live by strict per- 
sonal rights and implacable justice^ they would ex- 
terminate one another. A good lesson this for little 
brothers to learn^ one that will profit them later on. 
It is well worth a few fraternal battles and the 
breaking of some lances. 



The best evidence that this miniature world 
shapes and perfects its citizens^ lies in the leader- 
ship certain ones of them succeed in gaining there, 
reposing entirely as it does upon the free suffrage 
of their companions; there are persons of renown 
among brothers and sisters. When one of these 
little men has gained the confidence of the others, 
he continues to enjoy it without rivalry^ in an entire 



88 BY THE FIRESIDE 

security unknown to the chiefs of adult society. If 
he is equitable^ differences are submitted to him, 
causes pleaded before him, and his verdict is re- 
spected; if he is kind and winning, with a reputa- 
tion for wisdom, his words are gospel and implicitly 
obeyed. I look upon this ascendency of certain 
brothers and sisters as one of the best of things, but 
it is rarely acquired at the outset; it is the fruit of 
long persistence, ripening only in the open air of 
free encounters. If it owes something to age, it is 
not on that that it rests. An elder who is superior 
in nothing but years generally must see his place 
contested; he is called upon to justify his right 
of seniority by moral qualities. 



Leadership is only one of the spiritual relations 
that become established between brothers and sisters 
as a result of the free play of their activity; an- 
other is affection. To suppose that is must exist from 
the simple fact of the bond of blood, is a mistake; 
that certainly is something, it is much ; but it needs 
to be spiritualised, transformed into a bond of soul. 
It is vain to be brothers and sisters by virtue of 
common origin; there is need of being reborn spirit- 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 89 

ually into the true fraternal lif e^ of learning to love 
one another as we learn to bear with one another. 
Only then does the primitive bond reach the ful- 
ness of its force, and become indestructible. So 
long as this interior transformation is not wrought^ 
brothers may remain as indifferent to one another 
as strangers^ and there may even develop among 
them antipathies so lively as to degenerate into 
aversion and hatred. The first murder spoken of in 
the Bible is a fratricide, and everybody knows that 
animosity between brothers is strangely acute. "A 
brother offended resists longer than a stronghold," 
says the wise Sirach. At no time have hostile 
brothers been a rarity in the world : too many illus- 
trious examples may be called to witness, too many 
cruel experiences confirm the fact. 

Who among parents has never feared to see some 
rivalry of childhood perpetuated through life ? Fra- 
ternal affection is not an inevitable sentiment fol- 
lowing relationship as a necessary consequence, it is 
an affection which has difficulties to overcome, illu- 
sions to dissipate. I would compare it to a rare and 
delicate plant. Bitter herbs, the symbols of ran- 
cours which strike their venomous root deep in the 
heart, threaten to strangle it. It needs watching, 



90 BY THE FIRESIDE 

care, protection. Parents have it in their power to 
do much here, for or against. There are ways of 
bringing up children which rouse all the jealousies 
and all the base passions capable of making man an 
enemy of man, brothers enemies of brothers. By 
unsuitable comparisons, inexcusable partialities and 
incitement to rivalry, we sow the seeds of division 
among these young souls. In order to have them 
love one another, restrain one another's bad im- 
pulses, calm anger and appease resentment among 
themselves, we must begin by loving them with im- 
partial justice. We must be all things to all, kindle 
them constantly with our kindness, in order to make 
them kind, keep their affections warm, and weld the 
solidarity more firmly. Then the differences that 
are inevitable always resolve into preliminaries of 
peace, and even on the field of battle the champions 
atone for their mutual rudeness by reconciliations 
full of the beauty of frank avowal. 



By a natural movement of one of the noblest in- 
stincts of our nature, the affection of brothers and 
sisters is nourished through the need we have of one 
another; our children are mutually attached, be- 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 91 

cause of their mutual help. It seems to me that the 
presence of numerous elders^ servants perhaps^ who 
make it unnecessary for children to render each 
other little services^ is a grave hindrance. Let our 
children have need of one another^ feel that they 
have it^ and do each other favours. To let worldly 
considerations and the superficial exactions of eti- 
quette check fraternity in its very beginning, is a 
great pity. 

When in town or country we come upon groups 
of children alone, little brothers guarded by their 
older sisters, who are still only little girls them- 
selves, our hearts are greatly touched. We think of 
the danger they run; we pity these " little mothers " 
charged with cares beyond their strength, stooping 
under the burden of sleeping babies, and facing per- 
plexities and troubles that would tax the resources 
of grown people; and to a certain extent there is 
good reason for our pity. Only God can know the 
pathetic dramas played in these lives of children 
robbed of their birthright and left to themselves, or 
guided and protected by those who still have need 
of guidance and protection. But he who takes a 
nearer view, sees something else than misery in thLs 
wronged world, he sees a close and strong fellow- 



92 BY THE FIRESIDE 

ship^ coming from the need these little ones have 
of one another. Among children who grow up in 
want^ but in the continual sharing of all they have, 
there is a pathetic fraternity. I have known some 
of these poor little things who would have deprived 
themselves of everything^ exposed themselves to 
everything^ for the sake of their younger brothers 
and sisters; who defended them with really heroic 
courage, and exercised a patience towards them that 
parents rarely show. And I have known children 
who had come under the blight of bad example — 
that slayer of children's souls — who would for noth- 
ing in the world have spoken an offensive word be- 
fore a younger child. Victims themselves of a pre- 
cocious defilement^ they yet hoped to save the dear 
little ones from a like fate. Bad were it for him 
who should try, under their eyes, to scandalise 
them ! 

From the knowledge of these things there comes 
a lofty teaching; let us not miss it. May our own 
children grow up under such conditions that they 
have need of one another and feel called upon to 
aid one another. Such services bring about frater- 
nity and preserve it, and they should increase in 
number and take new forms as children grow older. 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 93 

We should not be continually saying: ''Don't tie 
your brother's cravat^ don't do your sister's errands^ 
a servant should attend to such matters !" Frater- 
nity comes before etiquette^ and man is not pure 
spirit. To give us exercise in brotherly communion^ 
words and feeling alone do not suffice. Let us put 
into concrete and palpable form what we have in 
our hearts. Do not deprive us of this pleasure^ op- 
pose us in this need; it is not all so material and 
commonplace as it may seem. To put a soul into the 
most ordinary occupations is the charm and grace 
of existence. 

I like^ too^ to see brothers and sisters help one an- 
other about their studies. What is dryer than a 
lesson^ or more disdainful than a pedagogue? But 
when the grammar or arithmetic is in the hands of 
a sweet little sister^ the pupil is on holiday and study 
is a pleasure. Where can you find a prettier picture 
than this? — In the great family arm-chair^ two 
sisters whom sleep has surprised in the midst of a 
lesson^ the arm of the elder round the younger^ the 
book slipped from their little fingers on to the floor. 

* * * ^ -Sf 

I wish to twine a garland here for the little sisters 
of consolation^ who know how to share our pain^ by 



94 BY THE FIRESIDE 

a soft word bring balm to our wounds^ and soothe 
away our griefs in a kiss. Those little sisters do not 
like us to cry^ they dry our tears ; they do not like 
us to quarrel^ they reconcile the disputants. When 
we f all^ they pick us up ; when we tear our clothes, 
they mend them ; when we hurt ourselves, they bind 
up our wounds. They are indulgent, too, these 
charming little sisters, and have treasure stores of 
kindness even for those on whom paternal severity 
has justly descended. They visit prisoners in dark 
corners, and do not fear to compromise themselves 
by caressing little brigands of brothers condemned 
to temporary exile for their misdeeds. 

It was in the beautiful time so far away that I 
still had my father, who died young, and the family 
was unbroken. First of all, in my eyes, came a little 
sister, my inseparable companion: we went every- 
where together, hand in hand. When in the course 
of our wanderings we came to one of those narrow 
planks which make bridges for the little brooks 
along our country lanes, we held each other faster 
than ever, lest one of us should fall into the water ; 
and often, thanks to this precaution, we both fell 
in together. One day when I had gone out alone, I 
committed a grave misdeed that would certainly not 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 95 

have happened had my little sister been along with 
me : I lighted a fire which spread to a hedge rimning 
near a barn. The excitement was intense^ and my 
punishment was exemplary. 

On the evening of this fateful day^ I was in my 
bed^ my conscience goaded by remorse^ my stomach 
gnawed by hunger; I had been quite justly sent 
there supperless. When my little sister came to say 
good-night, as she always did, bending over to kiss 
me, she slipped into my hand, without saying a word, 
a potato still hot from the hearth. 

It is many years now since she died, the dear little 
sister, but I have never forgotten that, and, though 
I live as long as a patriarch, I never shall. 



But let us leave this childish world where little 
brothers and sisters try their first tilts of life, and 
turn to youth with its wider horizons. If the 
younger years have well fulfilled their mission, have 
been a veritable school of brotherhood, relations 
more and more close and conscious have been estab- 
lished between children of the same household. The 
antagonists of other times have signed a peace and 
become allies. They have a common past, their 



96 BY THE FIRESIDE 

traditions_, all their memories intertwine and con- 
verge round the same centre^ each has developed his 
personality in contact with the others; they know 
one another well^ appreciate one another^ have 
learned together lessons of mutual help and for- 
bearance. The home^ peopled with familiar figures 
that long custom has rendered indispensable^ has be- 
come so surely their natural environment that no- 
where else are they really themselves. It is there 
that each says what he thinks^ and enjoys the un- 
questioned rights of citizenship. It is there that 
his name has its true significance^ a sound sweet to 
the ears^ which it is so good to hear ! If his individ- 
uality, respected^ encouraged in its original bent 
and loved for it^ has been able to take permanent 
shape^ in this very process he has learned to do for 
the others what they have done for him. The kind- 
ly hearth-fire shines for each and warms all: it 
broods and shapes and strengthens our characters^ 
but it also humanises them^ subdues them^ brings 
them into touch with one another. The home life 
nourishes at once personality with all that is most 
marked about it^ and esprit de corps in all its 
strength. Each member knows himself to be free^ 
distinct^ goes his way with perfect ease^ and yet 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 97 

feels himself thoroughly incorporate^ a member of 
a body. In the home we learn the meaning of life 
in common^ of joint responsibility^ of joys and 
sorrows shared; the circumscribed and isolated ex- 
istence of every man expands in contact with an 
existence richer and more complete. He comes to 
have the vision of the oversoul^ of the vast and mys- 
terious heights and depths of that communion of 
spirits which the egoist does not conceive, and the 
recluse divines but dimly through the pain and pov- 
erty of isolation. 

I do not think the world can oiFer a more interest- 
ing sight than a fine family where the sons and 
daughters have loyally preserved the spirit of the 
relationship. As the children one after another gain 
in cultivation and power^ the narrow horizon of 
childhood recedes. From his labour_, from his stud- 
ies_, from his contact with those without, each is con- 
stantly bringing in new treasure, and together they 
share it all, carry on one another's education. The 
family table becomes a rendezvous where all take 
delight in bringing their impressions and echoes of 
the great world outside. 

And when they venture into this world, they go — 
so to put it — enveloped in souvenirs of the home. 



98 BY THE FIRESIDE 

The name by which they are called^ the family name 
common to all the household^ constantly reminds 
them whence they came^ where they belong. They 
have in their charge^ wherever they go, a possession 
that must not be lost. Noblesse oblige^ and in no 
other particular so rigorously as in what concerns 
the name we bear. Every child ought to be very 
sensible of this^ and shape his conduct accordingly. 
When we dishonour or compromise our name, we 
must remember that it is not merely our own pro- 
perty which we are dissipating, but that of our 
brothers, our sisters, and the parents to whom we 
owe our lives. 



A thing rarer among brothers than esprit de corps 
is friendship : it is often more ardent between stran- 
gers whom like tastes have brought into contact; 
yet when we come to love another with an affection 
sure and deep, we say that we love him like a 
brother. The phrases of a language are never vain 
formulas: in the beginning there is always some- 
thing to justify them. They are documents, mon- 
uments. To love like brothers or sisters is not a 
superficial expression; however rare it may be, at 



BROTHERS AND SISTERS 99 

bottom this friendship is the purest and strongest 
of all friendships. 

Its most winsome form appears in the affection 
of brother and sister. A bond of this kind^ where 
choice is added to commmiity of origin^ has not only 
a great charm about it^ but also a powerful educa- 
tive influence. In a brother who is her friend^ a 
sister finds a support_, a protector^ a guide: her life 
is enriched by many things that would not come into 
it without him. She gains independence^ knows frank 
and joyous good comradeship; she learns to under- 
stand a young man's hearty a man's hearty and in a 
very simple and straightforward fashion^ through 
a most natural and desirable intimacy. 

A young man who has his sister for a friend^ finds 
in her a confidant^ an infinitely charming companion 
for his leisure hours^ an unerring j udge of his tastes 
and habits^ a conscience pure and incorruptible. She 
gives him with her affection a sweet and frank ex- 
pression of it^ and he must keep himself worthy of 
this. So he is helped to walk uprightly and to pre- 
serve that respect for woman without which a man 
lacks an essential quality. What a sister can do for 
a brother^ when she loves him and is clear of sights 
passes all belief. 
LcfC. 



100 BY THE FIRESIDE 

Let the family favour this friendship^ and look 
with suspicion upon any scheme of education whose 
effect is to embarrass it. To deprive our sons of the 
freest intercourse with their sisters^ to educate them 
apart and in such fashion as to hinder good under- 
standings would be a grave wrong. The family 
unity would be attacked^ and the future even more 
than the present would show our lack of wisdom. 



VII 
GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 

RUINED walls and ivy seem made for 
each other^ such charm is there in their 
combination. What gleaming clove- 
pinks and wild-rose trees full of humming bees 
are to moss-grown ramparts^ childhood is to old 
age. Family life here offers us a contrast so 
moving and such incorruptible riches^ that it were 
well worth the while to dwell upon them. Golden 
heads and gray gravitate together from what they 
have in common^ and enjoy each other for what they 
have apart; is not this unimpeachable ground for 
understanding and complementing one another? 

In spite of the difference in age^ between the old 
and the very young there is more than one resem- 
blance; the latest comers are often strangely like 
their grandfathers. As bald sometimes as they, and 
with a serious, almost venerable air, they remind 
us of what is most dignified in age. 

101 



102 BY THE FIRESIDE 

Life gives a comparable fate to the child and to 
the aged man^ the one not yet entered into the race 
of lif e^ the other come forth out of it. While youth 
pursues its pleasures and its studies, and manhood 
is in the midst of its strife^ the old stand aside with 
their memories^ and children with their play. It is 
not strange that they find each other out^ it is all 
foreseen and laid down in the plan of things. In 
the busiest days of summer^ when the hay must be 
turned^ or the harvest calls out all the lusty workers, 
the fields hum with life, but the villages are emp- 
tied: nobody is left there but the oldest and the 
youngest. On the thresholds of the houses and on 
benches outside, sit trembling old women and 
grandfathers, their chins supported on their canes, 
watch over the groups of playing children. We 
may observe here a whole world in miniature, with its 
suggestion of calm and of beneficent repose. It has 
often recalled to me impressions of nature which 
will serve as illustration. 

When we walk along the banks of great rivers or 
through wide stretches of meadow lands, we come 
upon peaceful coves where something alluring in- 
vites us to stop. Out there on the broad waters the 
hurried waves chase by, barks and ships sail along. 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 103 

the tireless current rushes onward amid continual 
change. Here^ near the bank, is calm. Great poplar- 
trees where ivy climbs, and woodbine, and clematis, 
plunge their roots into the motionless water. In the 
clear and transparent depths we see with strange 
distinctness gleaming pebbles and water-plants, and 
a shoal of fish, flashing their scales in a ray of sun- 
light. On the surface float the great leaves of the 
water-lily, the haunts of iridescent dragon-flies and 
golden-eyed frogs; and near by among the frail 
stalks on which his nest is hung, the reedbird is 
singing. 

So too the river of life has its sheltered and 
tranquil harbours, and in them the extremes of age 

fraternise. 

* * * * * 

There is good for both sides in this intercourse. 
Let us see first wherein it profits age, and begin 
by removing a mental reservation which might 
mingle with these reflections and disturb them. 

Old age has its detractors, who accuse it of ego- 
ism. They say that the best men die young, being 
the most sensitive and therefore the most vulner- 
able ; that in order to live to old age one must be not 
only tough of physical fibre but also hard of heart. 



104 BY THE FIRESIDE 

To their mind longevity is substantially equivalent 
to a brief for aridity of soul. 

Justice should be visited on such distortions of the 
truth. There is no question but that emotion con- 
sumes us; the gift of self, the sharing of others' 
griefs, the quest of painful toil and perilous duty, 
may shorten our days. Many a one has fallen asleep 
who, had he followed the precepts of a prudent 
hygiene, avoided unhealthy duties and service whose 
recompense is disease or flying bullets, might be 
here yet, fostering in peace his crown of snowy 
locks. To avoidance of too active pity, enthusiasm, 
and generous imprudence, many owe their state 
of admirable preservation. " Far from the fire," 
says a malicious proverb, "old soldiers are made." 
Is this to say that all good soldiers die young, and 
that the expressive and honourable name of vet- 
eran is meaningless ? No, it is to say that we should 
eschew sweeping j udgments. The truth is that most 
men die young, in all careers whatsoever, even that 
of egoist ; and certain exceptional men live to be old, 
also in all careers, even those of self-sacrifice. 

But then, you say, why are there so many selfish 
old people, insensible to everything that does not 
touch them personally, unfriendly to those begin- 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 105 

ning life_, showing at the dawn of spring-time the 
face of expiring winter? The reply is very simple. 
Why are there so many old egoists ? Because there 
are so many yomig ones. Messieurs the egotists are 
in the majority, an overwhelming majority, and 
have been so from the dawn of existence, and this 
majority they preserve. It seems to me difficult not 
to find this answer sufficient, and the search for fur- 
ther ones useless. I have no mind to deny the fact 
that others exist, only I hold that this is the best, 
and by itself has more weight than all the rest put 
together. But of this crowd of egoists weighted 
with years, bent on being old when others are young, 
of these discouraging gray-beards, we will say noth- 
ing. Having the choice, let us talk of the others, of 
those who incline towards the little ones, whose 
faces light up whenever they encounter a child. 
These are they who in their kindness to the children 
are doing kindness to themselves ; and let us see how 
they do it. 

Age is a rude school, and no one save those who 
have imdergone them, has any idea of the harsh- 
ness of the lessons it brings. We talk of the tempta- 
tions of youth, and it is not I who will suggest mak- 
ing light of them ; but if youth has its special diffi- 



106 BY THE FIRESIDE 

culties^ due to the impetuosity of its sentiments^ its 
inexperience, and the difficulty of finding its way, 
age has temptations of another kind. The young may 
be induced to believe that life is one long holiday 
into which they have only to throw themselves, un- 
less they see in it a combat where the palm awaits 
the most valiant or most deserving: old age may be 
gradually led to believe that life is vanity, that 
everything is hollow, rotten, exhausted, useless. 
For, truth to tell, the happiest of us, arrived at a 
certain age, is undone. Little by little the days, as 
they passed, have taken away his vigor, his zeal. 
Nature no longer sustains him ; he has lost a host of 
things that no one appreciates until deprived of them, 
things like this good warmth of the blood which 
makes one love life, the acuteness of the senses, the 
suppleness of the limbs. Even if he is rich, he is 
poor in more than one regard, and those who 
know the value of health, strength and joy, would 
not exchange their youth for all his fortune. Be- 
sides, he is solitary. We start out in numbers in the 
morning of our days ; in evening we are decimated 
like troops returning from the wars. No long life is 
exempt from partings and separations ; so many 
good-byes have been said that shadow mingles with 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 107 

every thought. We have had too many sad experi- 
ences with humanity^ we become possessed by a 
certain bitterness. Along the lonely twilight road 
we risk becoming a prey to melancholy, sinking 
under our burden, believing that life is not worth 
while, that we come into it only to lose our illusions, 
to shatter our wings, to learn to love what we can 
not possess, to attach ourselves to what we must re- 
nounce. I go no further, fearing to say too much. 
Old age has terrible temptations, and since man is 
wont to say *' all's well that ends well," we might 
easily arrive at the conclusion that life is not good, 
since too often it ends ill. 

It any one has need of being upheld, encouraged, 
borne along, it is man arrived at old age, and none 
more than he needs to keep constantly near the 
brightness of life. Now one of the strongest and 
most winning arguments for hope, lying neither in 
reasoning, nor in the wisdom of man, but in a tan- 
gible fact, in a luminous demonstration given by 
God Himself, is the child. When our failing forces 
retire us, when our eyes have lost their fire, let us 
turn to little children. They are God's messengers 
to men going down the hill of life. At sight of 
them they perceive that nothing is lost, and, arrested 



108 BY THE FIRESIDE 

by the fact of life ever renewed^ they feel a little 
less keenly the sense of passing things. How sorry 
I am for those who in the evening of life have no 
children about them^ and how much more sorry for 
those who lack either the time or the mind to in- 
terest themselves in what goes on among little folks. 
They lose one of life's rarest recompenses^ and suc- 
cumb under the suffocating weight of a dry wisdom. 
We have all heard the stories of good fairies who 
pass through closed doors and prison walls. No dis- 
tance can keep them away^ no height nor depth 
affright them : across the age-old laws of cruel fate, 
they have invisible paths no obstacle can block. Do 
not laugh at these stories, they are all true, true 
in a spiritual sense that a man is most unfortunate 
not to possess; and the children's world is full of 
these stories. The soul of a child transforms our 
world: he makes us see things that he does not see, 
and that we certainly should never have suspected. 
The best and most comforting of good fairies is a 
joyous child, mingling his laughter in the serious 
business of life, even in its griefs. As winter over- 
spreading everything with snow, transforms plants, 
rocks and buildings into shapes of marvellous 
beauty ; as sunset-lights garland the earth with daz- 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 109 

zling rainbows and edge sombre rocks and dark 
birds* wings with gold^ so childhood lights up every- 
thing it touches with a grace whose source is far- 
ther than the snow-flake's region^ beyond the setting 
sun. Through the child^ God brings a dawn into our 
twilights and covers our prison walls with bloom. 
The casques of mailed warriors and the lion's jaws 
sculptured on the facades of palaces^ were not made 
to serve as swallows' nests. The swallows build there^ 
nevertheless. No cheerless and disheartening en- 
vironment is meant for a child^ but when he comes 
into it^ mingling with our reasoned and pessimistic 
words the innocent confidence of his thought^ does 
it not mean that there are better days ahead^ that 
there is hope beyond the reach of our vision ? 

I have told elsewhere the story of the grand- 
mother's crutch which became to the little grand- 
son a dearly beloved horse^ reconciling the grand- 
mother to her need of it. Here is another story of 
the same sort. 

Grandfather was very sad. A miserable journal 
had assailed his political record, ridiculed it, trailed 
it in the mud. It had offered the old warrior one 
of those cups of ingratitude so bitter to him whose 
intentions have always been pure. His son comes in 



110 BY THE FIRESIDE 

from courts preoccupied over a turbulent and in- 
tolerable session. 

'* Have you read the paper ? " 

" No." 

" Well^ you must read it. It's shameful ! Attack 
an old man^ slander him^ blacken his record — it's 
criminal! You must see what they say of your 
father^ and defend him." 

*' I w^ill defend you, father, never fear. Where 
is the paper ? " 

Grandfather searches for it, rushes about his 
study, interrogates everybody, in vain. Where in 
the world . . • . ? Suddenly the Benjamin of the 
family makes a triumphal entry, armed with a 
wooden sword and wearing a paper helmet whereon 
in glaring letters may be read the name of the ob- 
noxious sheet. He has made it into a cocked hat. 

At the sight grandfather is disarmed, and em- 
bracing the little innocent, he acknowledges that the 
child has probably found a better solution than 
would ever have occurred to his elders. 

We are always owing to children startling sur- 
prises and unexpected emotions. If men lived in 
contact with those of their own age alone, and grew 
old so, existence would become insupportable. We 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 111 

should be reduced to the spectacle of one another's 
infirmities, and the echo of one another's gloomy 
thoughts. Never a spring-time, never a fresh and 
pure breath ! We see something of it in " homes " 
for the aged. Nothing seems lacking to their in- 
mates, kindness and foresight have provided for all 
material need; why is it, then, that we always find 
in them an atmosphere of discontent and sadness? 
It is because their inhabitants are all too much alike, 
and although they may have descendants some- 
where, they are subject to the same law as com- 
munities of celibates. The life of providences, the 
normal life, demands the mingling in harmony of 
the different ages. 



Yet this is only one side of the shield. There re- 
mains to be brought out another side, showing what 
childhood may profit from age. 

Some people doubtless think it cannot profit at 
all; that material contact with old age is injurious, 
and spiritual contact enervating; that grandparents 
should be denied all educative influence with little 
children: they spoil them. This is a grave subject, 
whereon one must speak his mind. 



112 BY THE FIRESIDE 

The education of children plainly belongs to their 
parents ; to suppress a generation and give it over to 
grandparents is out of the natural order^ and only 
acceptable where^ through a misfortune too fre- 
quent^ the parents die young, or where unavoidable 
circumstances make it necessary; in all other cases 
it is the parents who ought to bring up their chil- 
dren_, arrange their studies and have the responsi- 
bility of their direction. But is this to say that 
while paying all due deference to the ideas of the 
parents^ the grandparents may not contribute some- 
thing valuable to the work? In a labour so serious 
and so complicated^ is it wise to reject kindly col- 
laborators whom experience and ajSTection have 
doubly qualified for this function? For my part^ 
I think it a great deprivation not to have known one's 
grandparents^ to have been separated from them by 
family differences or by that feverish desire for 
change of place which courses in the veins of con- 
temporary society. In this universal unrest^ the 
poor grandparents are left behind in the country^ 
where they live alone with their memories^ and die 
after having had but rarely the pleasure of em- 
bracing the beloved little folks brought up away off 
in some city apartment. And the children have not 



I 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 113 

the great delight of knowing those dear old people 
whom one calls grandfather and grandmother. 

What we should do is to thank God for the pos- 
session of them and for having them near at hand. 
They do not represent authority^ that belongs to the 
parents; the grandparents represent a sort of su- 
perior justice^ a law of mercy and refuge. Their 
rule is less of the earth. They are bordering on that 
realm of goodness where hearts are led by gentle- 
ness and smiles, where a sign means as much as a 
word and more than an act of severity. These are 
means that the direct and executive power of parents 
may employ only with extreme discretion, but they 
are excellent in the venerable hands of grand- 
parents. Naturally they must not be abused, for 
abuse has always destroyed use. The constant and 
ill-timed intervention of grandparents >vho have for- 
gotten that education does not happen of itself or 
exclusively by gentle methods, is very unfortunate. 
But it is very fortunate and humane that from time 
to time a friendly voice should intercede for young 
culprits, and if it is a grandfather or grandmother 
who asks leniency, nothing more quickly touches 
their hearts; sobs attest at once their repentance 
and their gratitude. And is it not true that such in- 



114 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tervention often makes a way out for a father^ who 
must himself be inflexible if he follow the path of 
wisdom and duty^ but who asks nothing better than 
under cover of another to exercise the right of clem- 
ency? He cannot fail to remember that he him- 
self once had frequent need of it. 

To judge others by myself — and I do not well see 
what means of judging we have left if we give that 
up — I have kept the highest opinion of the influence 
of grandparents. I don't like to hear too much out- 
cry about spoiling children, when these kind old 
people try to make life agreeable for them, perhaps 
with the hidden thought — so excusable — of leaving 
a pleasant remembrance behind. We do not con- 
sider enough the feelings of these hearts, late in 
life, when the world is slipping away and with it 
those dear beings among whom they would so gladly 
stay. 

I was five years old, and possessed of an heroic 
appetite. The slices of bread and butter my mother 
gave me were of judicious dimensions, even more so 
than those furnished by my aunts, who accompanied 
them with maxims in praise of moderation. Ordi- 
narily there was nothing to say; this was final, and 
bound to be satisfactory. But on those extraordi- 



I 
I 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 115 

nary occasions when grandmother took the great 
family loaf in hand^ she cut off memorable slices. 
There were cries of " It's too much^ too much ! " 
" You will see that there won't be anything left," 
was the smiling reply. '* Let me have the pleasure 
of seeing the child eat all that he wants.'' I did not 
understand then the full import of the words, but 
simply measured the goodness of grandmother by 
the size of her slices of bread. But now this remem- 
brance of a hungry little boy has been transformed 
and has lodged in my heart, and it shows me what 
goes on in theirs — the kind old people's ! Thanks 
to this persistent souvenir, I can still see grand- 
mother, in her pretty Lorrainese cap, and I say 
to myself: "If your wish was that I should re- 
member you long, very long, you made no mistake ! 
The man thanks you for what you were to the child, 
and if ever in his turn he becomes a grandfather, he 
will follow your example." 

^ ^ * * * 

Children are ravenous for stories, and old people 
have sacks full of them: to tell of things that have 
been and are no longer, is their weakness, and to 
listen to them is to do them a kindness. At the age 
when ears are insatiable, and the cry is for more, 



116 BY THE FIRESIDE 

even when eyes are heavy with sleep, it is to the 
grandparents that we should go. No stage with all 
the magic of its wires and lights is equal to the arm- 
chair of grandfather. The older children range 
themselves around him, the little ones climb on his 
knees. Their eyes are fixed on his, and it is per- 
mitted to handle the head of his cane or stroke his 
long beard. What better place for little folks .'^ 
When the story gets exciting, even terrifying, you 
take refuge in grandfather's bosom. There there's 
nothing to risk, nothing to fear, and you can calmly 
bear up under the most tragic tales. Haven't they 
told us stories without end, the dear old grand- 
fathers? Have they not sung us lullabies and 
taught us marvellous legends, our grandmothers.'^ 
Never again in our lives do we find anything so in- 
teresting. What are the romances that we read later 
on, all made of transparent fictions and cumbered 
with literature? what are the most famous plays 
seen after one has looked behind the scenes, com- 
pared to what we listened to as children with that 
freshness of impression to which everything is 
new, and that naive trust to which everything is 
true ? 



GOLDEN HAIR AND GRAY 117 

Grandparents are oftentimes infirm^ and in need 
of service ; to help them is a very good thing for the 
child, little lover of noise and mischief that he is. 
To lend young eyes to grandpa to see the time, to 
read fine print, the better to find the way ; to thread 
a needle for grandmamma, who even with glasses 
cannot do it; to rmi to save their old limbs fatigue, 
to make a little less noise in the house so as not to 
disturb their sleep — all this is unqualified blessing 
to the young apprentices of life, and it is kindness 
to them to make them believe that they are needed. 
''Grandpa, how could you have got up the steps, if 
you hadn't had hold of my hand?" "IVe no idea, 
dearie; it's well that you were along to help me." 
After such a reply the child feels himself a little 
man, and is proud and happy to have been of use. 
Let these little ones serve us, do us kindnesses, 
and pet us. Let us accept their presents, and see 
that nothing they have themselves made for us is ever 
left about uncared for and forgotten. Let them 
celebrate our birthdays with reminders of the years 
we would so willingly forget, and of the love it is so 
good to know is ours. In short, let us respect and 
maintain the alliance that the Master of our days 
has established between the golden heads and the 



118 BY THE FIRESIDE 

gray. Through it life gains in colour^ in warmth, 
most of all in unity, and it is given us to see more 
clearly along our obscure way, when we feel that the 
same watch is kept by the morning and the evening 
star. 



VIII 

WHAT THOSE DO WHO NO LONGER DO 
ANYTHING 

THE worst trial a man can endure is to feel 
himself useless. It is a very bitter thing 
to be forced to acknowledge to one's self 
that he is no longer good for anything, that he is 
a burden to others ; but unhappily this is ordinarily 
the thought of old people. Through kindness of 
heart we try to remove it, but we are not always 
entirely convinced of the truth of what we say. 

Some people even are disposed to class the old 
with the wrecks of life, to think of them only as of 
so many more mouths to fill. The epoch of sharp 
competition and frantic struggle in which we live 
is particularly hard on old age. For revellers, the 
face of an old man spoils the feast and spreads dis- 
may; he should keep himself hidden. In the 
world of action, old age is looked upon as an in- 
superable defect; beyond a certain age it becomes 
difficult to find anything to do, and white-haired 

119 



120 BY THE FIRESIDE 

workmen go about repeating that no one wants them. 
To suggest that a writer^ an orator or an artist is 
losing his distinction, people say simply, he is get- 
ting old. 

But from such positions we take a wrong view of 
life. It is a mistake to consider old age as a deposi- 
tion, a stage bordering on extinction; not only is 
there ingratitude and injustice in such an idea, but 
there is an error in point of fact. Age, even that 
extreme age where all active participation in the 
world's affairs is denied, may still have its role, and 
a role of rare elevation. I shall attempt to point out 
some of its distinguishing marks, hoping to bring 
a little solace to hearts weighed down by the sense 
of uselessness, and to open the eyes of the young to 
realities of which they are not sufficiently conscious. 



Life does not consist alone in the display of force, 
in the vigorous exercise of active methods, in the 
conquest of bread or of gold, in the clashings of in- 
terests or ideas; it does not consist alone in the 
flowering of talent, of intelligence, of beauty, or in 
the countless enjoyments of which young and vig- 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 121 

orous men are capable ; it consists also in certain 
good things less visible but of a nobler sort^ like wis- 
dom^ self -surrender^ equity^ which are the fruit of 
long practical experience with men and things. If 
we find in the young flre^ exuberance_, enthusiasm, 
we too often find also excess, partiality, want of 
balance. Among men in the thick of affairs, whose 
maturity has moderated their ardour and clarified 
their judgment, we still find too many prejudices, 
arising naturally and unavoidably from the life in 
which their attention is engrossed. In open en- 
counter with necessities, difficulties and hostile 
forces, they bring out of the struggle some mental 
reservation and disturbance. It is not possible for 
them to look at things from sufficient distance and 
elevation to appreciate them justly; are they not at 
once judge and client? To find benignity and an 
elevation of soul that can no longer be disturbed by 
passionate cries and strife, we must turn to the old. 
"Wisdom and good sense are with the sages." 

But this is not to say that only years are needed 
to bring wisdom. When folly, intemperance of 
thought or action, sectarian virulence, fierceness for 
gain, and the obstination of wilful blindness, keep 
their hold among the aged, they are more hateful 



122 BY THE FIRESIDE 



' 



than anywhere else. " Better is a poor and wise 
youth than an old and foolish king^" saith the 
Preacher. It seems as though all human defects 
grow aggravated as they grow old. What is ugly in 
youth is hideous in age; what was simply wrong 
becomes satanic. I do not think it is possible to find 
in all creation anything more repellent than those 
old people who are proof against all generous senti- 
ments^ dead to pity and fairness ; who are venomous, 
vindictive, the slaves of base pleasures and vulgar 
ambitions, occupied night and day in catering to 
their appetites or satisfying their spite. In them 
the lowest depths of baseness are reached. 

We will not look longer into these lamentable by- 
ways of life, but turn our eyes towards men who 
wear with honour their crown of white, and to whom 
the sentiment of all peoples and times has paid the 
tribute of veneration. In the vocabulary of all 
nations, old man is synonymous with sage, and from 
a conservative instinct, absolutely true, and fortu- 
nate to possess, nations have sought out men of ripe 
age for their direction. They have seen that coun- 
sel outweighs force, and that if anything is to domi- 
nate the clamour of men, the clash of wills and even 
the tumult of arms, it is the self-contained and se- 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 123 

rene spirit of arbitration which is personified in a 
fine old face full of intelligence and dignity. 
***** 

" With the ancient is wisdom." It is well to recall 
this in the family^ that we may profit from their 
pacific and moderative force. I love to see the ar- 
dour of youth grappling with the wisdom of age. 
The young are playing their rightful role when they 
show themselves enthusiastic, strenuous, prompt to 
seize upon whatever presents itself. A little rash- 
ness befits them well, and I should be as distrustful 
of too silent youth as of still waters. We need im- 
pulsive forces, impatient of yokes and curbs, dis- 
posed to take risks, for whom a hazard of fortimes 
has no terrors, and whom danger allures. The fires 
of the world would have gone out through prudence 
and calculation, if each new generation had not 
brought us its contingent of fine temerity and chiv- 
alrous imprudence. 

So when the old-time trying of conclusions be- 
tween age and youth is renewed in the family circle, 
when the seething young wills rise against the in- 
stitutions and customs of other days, as the tide 
makes its periodic onslaught on the rocks, there is 
no need of trembling for the future. This is just as 



124 BY THE FIRESIDE 

it ought to be, always on condition that this j uvenile 
exuberance find its check. For, left entirely to 
itself, its work would be only confusing. The ardour 
of youth is an element of life and progress, pro- 
vided it be restrained, tempered and guided by the 
wisdom of age. " Dishonour not a man in his old 
age/' says Sirach. Now two tendencies are nat- 
urally found together in young people, which seem 
to imply a contradiction : they are rash, impulsive, 
headstrong, yet respectful of gray hair. A normal 
and natural youth, lively, merry, hardy and a stran- 
ger to fear, who would throw himself body and soul 
into any melee^ and would not quail before any 
power of earth, a young fellow of the right sort, up- 
right and dauntless, as he ought to be, is never lack- 
ing in respect for an old man, and for the simple 
reason that his generous impetuosity has an instinc- 
tive horror of remissness. The sentiment of venera- 
tion which old age inspires in well-bred youth, may 
be compared to the regard felt for woman by every 
man who merits the name. Along with true courage 
and manly strength is always found a very strong 
instinct of the respect due to woman; one might, 
without fearing to be misled, doubt the valour of a 
soldier insensible to her dignity and honour, a sol- 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 125 

dier with whom only arms and force avail, and for 
whom beauty in distress and right without might are 
not in themselves powers, so much the more redoubt- 
able because unprotected. 

The same judgment might be passed upon youth 
that has not the sentiment of the deference due to 
age. In the face of one's grandfather, it is not 
seemly to push independence of mind to its extreme 
limits; in such a proceeding there would be a note 
of harshness, of vulgarity, and he who had the te- 
merity to carry it out would thus bear the most im- 
f avourable witness to his own character. Disrespect- 
ful youth is not simply synonymous with vulgar 
youth, ill-bred, but with youth affected, vicious and 
cowardly. We need but observe certain families and 
certain coteries to become convinced of this. In the 
effeminate and dissolute society of epochs of cor- 
ruption, the old are held in low esteem; the lot 
proffered them is that of effacement. They are 
pushed into corners, rough-handled, and their coun- 
sel is despised; youth tramples on them — "an im- 
pudent and brutal people, disregarding the person 
of old men." Wherever, on the contrary, moral 
force holds sway, the cultivation of character, and 
a just pride in manly life; wherever energy is hon- 



126 BY THE FIRESIDE 

oured and manners are wholesome^ we find youth 
strongs active^ exuberant^ but in presence of the 
aged^ gentle and filial. Among themselves, these 
youths treat each as equals, assert their beliefs 
without constraint, fight their battles with no com- 
promise, and deal in plain speech. They are demo- 
cratic, and all pretension among their fellows irri- 
tates them. But with old men their attitude changes. 
They have paraphrased the saying. The king can do 
no wrong, and say. The old can do no wrong. 
/ In this disposition to spare the aged, to reverence 
them, to listen to their advice, there is something 
providential; it is the best corrective we have for 
the impetuosity of youth. The wisdom of the old 
serves as a check to the ardor of the new-comers. 
Here are two very diflferent forces of nature com- 
pleting each other, and in learning to harmonise 
them in the family, one first of all renders a service 
to himself; for at the age of glorious dreams and 
of ardour for reform, our inexperience has need of 
contact with the ripe and tranquil science of vet- 
erans in the school of life. And at the same time 
one does service to his country. A normal public 
life is only possible where the turbulence and effer- 
vescence of new and daring forces consent to accept 



] 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 127 

as balance the settled calm of older heads^ in whom 
a clear and dispassionate miderstanding has got the 
better of violence of sentiment and the rapid play of 
the emotions. It is an error to believe that the in- 
fluence of an old man's wisdom on a young man's 
ardour is sterilising and serves but to enervate and 
neutralise his generous impulses. Doubtless there 
are old men who do not respect youth^ denying it its 
rights^ root and branch ; in whose eyes it is a sort of 
imposture to be young; the hunters and slayers of 
juvenile dreams and stranglers of young hopes. 
But as truly as a right-minded youth has an innate 
respect for the old^ a right-minded old man would 
never violate a young conscience or reduce it to 
slavery. If he makes reservations^ offers resistance, 
it is to hinder good energy's being dissipated. He 
knows that, to be effective, all expansive force de- 
mands a coimterpoise. In order that water should 
attain a required pressure, or steam acquire its max- 
imum of elasticity, it must be confined within limits ; 
it is the obstacle we offer them that develops their 
force and utilises their action. 

Man's most stressful efforts remain ineffective 
when method, direction, and oversight are lacking. 
This seems hampering, vexing. When the mind 



128 BY THE FIRESIDE 

feels an ardent longing, it wants to realise its dream 
at a stroke; delay brings impatience. In the fresh 
ardour of his twenty years, man knows no doubts, 
and easily believes that to start out with enthusiasm 
is all that is needful to attain an end. But those 
who have lived long enough know that to run in the 
race is not all; one must consider whither he goes, 
with what provision he starts out, and what are the 
chances of success. True, with too much reflection, 
too many precautions, there is danger of never set- 
ting out at all. Left to itself, old age would be too 
timid but youth would be too rash. Between them 
there is a fruitful and essential struggle, or rather 
it is the collaboration of two forces that could not 
get on without each other. We must accustom our- 
selves to it. Every day we hear exclamations like 
this : *' Oh, these young fellows — if they were 
masters of affairs ! " " Oh, these old men — if they 
were allowed their own way ! " These cries are sin- 
cere, and truth is in them. Alone, either camp 
would be baleful to humanity ; let them learn, then, 
to bear with each other. Old men, do not be aston- 
ished at the haste of youth. Young men, don't be 
impatient that the old follow so slowly. Neither of 
you is timing his gait with design; you are both 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 129 

fulfilling the law of things,, which is higher than 
you. 

If the old had no other mission in the family and 
in society than to represent prudence^ the continuity 
of history^ the need of unity between what has 
been^ what is^ and what is to be^ they would in so 
far be indispensable. Representatives and guar- 
dians of what is venerable in the past, they per- 
sonify it for us, remind us of it when we are tempted 
to forget it. They repeat simple maxims with an 
insistence trying to our patience; but it is good for 
us to listen to the repetition of axioms that sum up 
the conditions of man's life and labour, the laws of 
all his activity. The ancient Scythians had a sin- 
gular custom, and yet very sage. When any grave 
matter was to be settled in their assemblies, they 
discussed it first after drinking, under the influence 
of wine, which loosens the tongue and gives courage 
to the fearful ; but never did they immediately carry 
out these first decisions, impregnated, as it were, 
with the fancies of drunkenness; they deliberated 
the matter a second time, after having subjected 
themselves to the rigours of a fast. No decisions had 
weight with them except those which came intact out 
of this double test. 



130 BY THE FIRESIDE 

These Scythians^ barbarians that they were^ could 
give us lessons. When the fire of youth courses in 
our veins like a generous wine, we are full of plans ; 
nothing is impossible, nothing too far off or too 
high. But just as it is but a step from the sublime 
to the ridiculous, so it is but a leap from enthusiasm 
into folly. As a guard against foolishness, let us 
supplement our heady discussions and conclusions 
by the sober meditations of men crowned with years ; 
let our intoxication be tempered by their calm. 
^ * ^ * * 

Through its very gift of tempering and mod- 
erating, it is often the part of old age to reconcile 
opposites and bring those at variance to an under- 
standing. It is very hard to avoid all clashes ; daily 
difficulties will arise among the members of a family. 
To let the antagonists take each other's measure and 
pursue the quarrel, would lead in the end to the 
weakening of the family ties, and it is very fortu- 
nate if there is some one impartial to represent them. 
An old person of sound and disciplined heart, may 
do much in behalf of family peace. In his presence 
the troubled waves grow calm, the adversaries make 
advances, and hands meet. The old, then, are the 
peace-makers. Their spirit and the tranquil corner 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 131 

of the dwelling that is theirs, are sanctuaries where 
it is good to take refuge from the tumult of the outer 
life, and sometimes from the questionings of the 
inner. 

Let me offer my tribute on the threshold of the 
room of grandfather or grandmother, where noise 
dies away and storms are hushed. It is a charmed 
place that bitterness and evil thoughts cannot enter. 
An atmosphere of benevolence welcomes you and 
invites to confidence. You feel that you are in a 
little realm of silence, where you may tell aloud your 
joys and sorrows, make frank avowal of your 
thoughts. The old are the best confidants. The 
voice of the passions is hushed in them, and does 
not hinder their hearing your voice. They have no 
more desires of their own, and can interest them- 
selves in yours. If your conscience is tormented by 
the remembrance of some wrong deed, and you feel 
drawn to confess it, go to the old. Less severe than 
some ages, and less indulgent than others, they have 
the measure of clemency and of austerity necessary 
for the pardoning of faults, for raising up those 
who fall, and helping them back into the way. And 
is it not to them that one goes to share those sweet 
secrets which are so hard to keep? Young lovers 



132 BY THE FIRESIDE 

are nowhere more at ease than under the shelter of 
the old. When one does not know to whom to talk 
of what is filling her heart, she confides it to her 
grandmother; and how does it happen that grand- 
mother is not surprised at the confidence, when no 
one else has had even the slightest suspicion ? 
^ -x- ^ * * 

It is good to have the old for confidants when you 
are happy, good to have their consolation when you 
are sad. If your breast is torn with spiritual strife, 
or your heart bruised from grievous trials, go find 
some dear old friend who has suffered much. What 
comfort you get ! He has met in close quarters the 
thing that afi'rights you, has passed through what 
you dread to undergo, and he has vanquished it all 
through patience and trust. An infinitely sweet and 
strong virtue of consolation belongs to venerable 
age, a virtue sanctified in the fires of suffering and 
purified through great griefs. Little by little these 
elders have been lifted into a higher life where the 
desires and envies and ambitions of the lower life, 
even the thirst for happiness, have vanished away. 
In them we no longer find anything but unalloyed 
kindness, self-forgetfulness, serenity in sacrifice. 
For a man sensitive to beauty of soul and to moral 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 133 

realities^ the mere presence of a person whose face 
speaks of this beautiful old age^ relights the flame 
of courage and strengthens the hearty even in the 
thick of the crudest trials. Those who have peace, 
bring with them the gift of peace ; those who know 
resignation, do not simply teach it, but also com- 
municate it. I am dumb with admiration before the 
moral splendours that hide quietly in certain lives of 
the aged. God alone is capable of measuring their 
richness. Such old age is the supreme flower of 
humanity. 

Surely I love youth and know how to appreciate 
it. Not all the blossoms of the earth gathered into 
one mass would equal the beauty that radiates from 
the brow of twenty years, and if all the tender light 
of the stars could be f ocussed together, all the blue 
of the sky and the sea and of the mysterious depths 
of forests, it would not make anything comparable, 
O Youth, to the light in your radiant eyes when 
hope dwells there, and love. 

And yet there is something more precious, more 
moving, whose radiance is rarer than your freshness ; 
it is old age, come through the crucible of human 
griefs, refined like pure gold, of which the poet 
says: 



134 BY THE FIRESIDE 

^^ Let flame leap forth from youthful eyes. 
The eyes of age shed light.'''* 



So we see there are many offices performed by 
those who no longer do anything. But suppose that 
they have become incapable of bringing us profit 
from their wisdom^ or rendering us any sort of 
service, is it not much that they are still with us ? I 
ask it of those who live from the heart. When the 
burdens of age press upon our parents, when the 
great weariness of life bears them down and they 
talk of leaving us, because, as they put it, there is 
no longer any reason why they should stay, may I 
say to them, most respectfully, that they talk like 
children, and do not realise either what they say or 
what pain they give us ? 

If they only knew how glad we are to have them 
with us, how happy, when we come home at night, to 
find them seated in the same place, in the old arm- 
chair so well named Sorgenstuhly seat of cares. The 
nearer we get to age ourselves, the more happiness 
it gives us to still be able to say '* papa," " mamma." 
It means little that they are broken down and 
changed of face, if only they are here; so long as 
they are near us, we feel that we have a shelter over 



WHO NO LONGER DO ANYTHING 135 

our heads. To men's eyes they have almost become 
our children^ since we guard and care for them as 
they once did for us ; but they are no less a refuge 
for our hearts, the dearest and most sacred. And 
so when their eyes come to close, they leave a great 
void behind them, though they scarcely seemed to fill 
any space. We were used to seeing them ; they made 
part of our horizon, like the blue line of the forests 
and the mountain-peaks. When we lose them we 
feel that we have been touched in a vital spot, that 
something essential has gone from us. 

I knew a man, one of the most active and ener- 
getic of our times, and charged with the direction 
of a great public service. He held grave interests 
in his hands, and every day found him in the breach, 
not alone for labour but also for battle and defence. 
If he knew the encouragement that sympathy and 
approbation bring, he knew also, and better than 
most men, the bitterness of attack and the keen 
thrusts of fanatical hatred. This man, of humble 
origin, had his mother, a very old lady, living with 
him in a quiet corner of the house. Every morning 
before starting for his department, he went to bid 
her good-by, and in winter he made her fire himself, 
never allowing a servant to do it, finding in it a satis- 



136 BY THE FIRESIDE 

faction that nothing else could bring him. And it 
was very sweet to him on the threshold of a day of 
care, of grave debates and important decisions, to 
carry away on his brow his mother's kiss, and to 
hear her say, " God keep you, my child ! " 

It seems to me this story I tell is the story of 
many men; and I do not think any one can flatter 
himself that in the midst of active life, even in the 
heart of the struggle, he does anything better than 
these dear old people do who imagine that they do 
nothing at all. 



IX 

OUR SERVANTS 

THE normal organisation of humanity is on 
the basis of mutual service; each one 
gains his place in the sun by service ren- 
dered. Those who are good for nothing, serve no- 
body, are parasites, and the health of the social body 
demands that it rid itself of them as of vermin. But 
in truth, an absolute parasite is a rarity, only to be 
met in isolated cases and existing under ever in- 
creasing difficulties. The ideal of the energetic age 
in which we live, the only one at least that any one 
dare avow and proclaim, is not to live at the expense 
of others, but to be a useful servant of one's race. 

This does not hinder a certain class of men from 
being called servants, and of them I wish to speak 
a moment. The great majority of homes are with- 
out domestics, the people in them are served by 
themselves ; but the greater part of those who read 

137 



138 BY THE FIRESIDE 

books have at least one maid. To write a book about 
the home without discussing this subject would, 
theref ore_, be to make a capital omission. 

The question is certainly not easy or agreeable, 
but it imposes itself upon our attention ; it is a famil- 
iar side of the great social question. Seen in its 
petty lights, it is certainly exasperating; you would 
like to elude it, to deceive yourself, to deny that 
there is such a question ; but this would be childish. 
We will discuss it, then, seriously, since whenever 
two or three mothers of families meet, they always 
hit upon this chapter, and once in it, never get out 
again. 

" Ah, these maids ! " this is the refrain. " What 
an endless trial! If we could only get on without 
them ! But they are a necessary evil ! " 

I announce at once that I am not going to look 
at the matter from this point of view. I like to 
avoid speaking evil of the absent. Not that there 
is no truth on this side of the case, no just re- 
proaches to be made; but they are heard every day 
from a multitude of people; why need we repeat 
them? There are reflections, however, that I be- 
live it would be very wholesome for us to make. 

To begin with, I would say, let us take care that 



OUR SERVANTS 139 

the stranger who serves us, whether foreigner or no, 
does not become a foreign body in the domestic or- 
ganism. The foreign body is always hostile, causes 
painful disturbance, and is finally expelled, leaving 
more or less grave disorder behind. To escape suf- 
fering in this fashion through our servants, it is 
necessary first of all to engage them only upon suf- 
ficient recommendation; and then, when they have 
once come into the house, to suppose that they have 
come to stay, and see to it that everything necessary 
be done to make them feel, to a certain extent, at 
home. 

You will immediately say, " Oh, but servants were 
formerly more devoted than now ; they are no longer 
members of the family; they are hirelings simply, 
and sometimes our worst enemies." 

Pardon me, but it is for no man's interest to be 
without rhyme or reason the enemy of another man ; 
there is a disagreeable problem here that we must 
study calmly and in a fair spirit; to compare the 
past and the present and regret the good old times, 
is not enough. The march of time cannot be stayed, 
but the difficulties that face us demand a solution. 
What is to be done } Simply this : give our attention 
to the man in the servant. You wish a good coach- 



140 BY THE FIRESIDE 

man or cook^ and you should find one; but be sure 
that no one is altogether a cook or a coachman; all 
the cooks and coachmen are human beings. Interest 
yourself in this being. The younger he is, the 
farther from his kin, the more need he has of a little 
consideration. Do not confine your relation with 
him to the matter of his service ; if you do, you will 
probably be served poorly. Without forcing his 
confidence, but in all sincerity, inform yourself of 
his history, his family, the subjects that fill his mind. 
You carry about with you daily your own burdens, 
or some secret thought that never leaves you even 
in your work and your pleasures ; your servants are 
like you ; they did not lay aside humanity when they 
put on livery. The coachman never mounts his box 
alone ; the invisible companion that attends each one 
of us is there by his side like his shadow. Why, 
you who are men, do you forget that your servants 
are not machines for sweeping, cooking, or digging ? 
Remember it, then, and in most cases it will be for 
your good and theirs. Some perverted individuals, 
out of whom no response is to be got, will be in- 
sensible to this mark of your real interest and un- 
affected humanity; the rest will be touched by it. 
You have not seen in them simply the servant, they 



OUR SERVANTS 141 

will not see in you simply the master ; and this will 
be all profit. On this foundation you will establish 
normal relations. You will begin with a little hu- 
manity^ a little kindness between you^ and devotion 
will spring from it as a natural consequence. You 
talk about this devotion now^ you are always looking 
to reap it; but by what right .^ have you ever sown 
the seed? You know neither the field wherein it 
grows nor the seed from which it springs. You are 
egoistic^ cold, interested only in what concerns your- 
self. You say habitually^ "If only they do their 
work, I don't care about the rest.*' Do you not per- 
ceive that the reverse of this reflection of the master 
is this other reflection of the man; *' If only they 
pay me, I don't care about the rest " } 

To resolve the problem of servants the same 
things are needful that have been from the begin- 
ning of the world, in the face of all difficulties — 
namely, tact and good- will. If any one offers you 
a new recipe, and it is effective, be sure that it is 
only the old one in a changed form. 

***** 

Another valuable piece of advice with reference 
to your servant is this: Put yourself in his place. 
To live with any one, it is necessary to understand 



142 BY THE FIRESIDE 

him^ and_, to understand him^ you must know how to 
penetrate his state of mind. 

Here are people living under your roof whose lot 
is totally different from yours. However well the 
social distance is observed between your situation 
and theirs, the material distance is suppressed. 
Comparisons are forever suggested, reflections arise 
that cannot easily be seized and made definite, but 
which perturb the brain. Wounds to pride, f orget- 
fulness, involuntary doubts, nurse feelings of dis- 
content and revolt. To remove them, we must first 
discern the cause. 

Sometimes the difiiculty comes from the disdain 
that the apparent vanity of our life inspires in those 
who serve us. They do not see us at work, do not 
perceive the purpose of our lives, unless they see too 
well that this purpose is empty. To serve people 
who are of no service themselves is demoralising. 
One submits to being a very small cog, on condition 
that he fits into a corresponding part of the whole, 
and helps sustain the weight of a higher activity. 
In preparing meals for a hard-working master, 
blacking the boots of a physician, brushing the gar- 
ments of a thinker, lighting the fire for a busy trav- 
eller returned fatigued from a long journey, there 



OUR SERVANTS 143 

is charm and inspiration. I understand perfectly 
the servant who says^ " to-day we have a surgical 
operation ; we plead a celebrated case ; we are going 
to bore a tunnel^ build a manufactory ;" so^ too^ the 
cook who keeps the soup hot because to-day Mon- 
sieur gives his lecture and is sure to come home a 
little tired. Every one has need of knowing why 
he works. To f eed^ dress^ attend_, and amuse idlers, 
is not a trade for a man. Such an occupation makes 
him crusty, sarcastic, sceptical, ugly. Let us put 
ourselves in the servant's place; it is sometimes a 
means of bringing us back into our own. 

To possess the qualities demanded in a good serv- 
ant, one needs have the calm of a philosopher, the 
suavity of a diplomat, the legerdemain of a wizard, 
the ingenue of the devil, and the patience of the 
angels. But where are the masters who possess 
these traits? We allow ourselves to be capricious, 
maladroit, negligent, and above all impatient. 
Singular privilege — ^to be of less worth than our 
inferiors ! ^ 

My conviction is that the question of servants is 
particularly weak on the side of the masters and 
mistresses, but even if I am wrong in this, is it 
not the side that lies most within our control.^ We 



144 BY THE FIRESIDE 

may well pay attention to what depends upon us; 
it is a method that always proves its advantages by 
its results. To be well served, we must well com- 
mand_, and to command well we must first of all be 
worthy of respect and show that we are worthy. 

Let us be merciful, and require it of our children. 
Nothing so spoils the willingness and usefulness of 
a servant as to be subjected to the caprices of a 
child. These two beings are heroes — ^the soldier 
under arms who lets the populace hurl rocks at him 
without returning fire, and the servant who endures 
with patience and kindness the impertinence of ar- 
rogant and ill-bred children. Let us take care not 
to neglect our relations with our servants, but apply 
to them the highest and most rigorous rulings of 
conscience. A gentleman is more scrupulous to 
carry himself well before his inferiors than to make 
a good impression on his superiors. If you sin in 
this matter, the whole house feels the effects — ^the 
peace of the family, the education of the children, 
the moral and religious atmosphere. Then go make 
your confession when you have been guilty of ex- 
cesses of speech or of power. 

To live on bad terms with one's servants is to 
nourish a source of disturbance in the home; to live 



OUR SERVANTS 145 

on good terms with them is to resolve^ as far as you 
are concerned_, one of the social problems that tor- 
ment our age. You make it possible for those who 
have chiefly in their care your material life, to be 
something other than beasts of burden, and to enter 
into the spirit of their office, a thing which is always 
an emancipation; in short, you permit them to feel 
that they are your collaborators, and in spite of all 
outward differences, your equals in human dignity, 
while for yourself, you escape the disgrace of sub- 
jecting others to oppression. 

There is a blot on the life of every man who re- 
duces another man to slavery, for tyranny brings 
forth manners that double-dye the tyrant. Let us 
preserve ourselves and our children from the irrad- 
icable blight that settles upon regions where the hu- 
man soul is affronted in the person of the lowly. 
To make of our children useful men, let us raise 
them in reverence for man, whatever costume he may 
wear or whatever station he may occupy. Better 
welcome a thunderbolt to the roof than lodge a pa- 
riah under it. 

Children, young men and young girls, be consid- 
erate toward those who serve you, polite, amiable, 
respectful, and help them to bear their burdens. 



146 BY THE FIRESIDE 

Do not fear that they will be^come on that account 
disdainful and less respectful to you. To make 
one's self loved is the true secret of being obeyed, 
and is better worth than tasting the brutal grat- 
ification of making the grip of the master felt. 
Never let any one do you a service that will degrade 
him. If there are occupations to which a specially 
menial idea is attached, enter into them yourself 
sometimes, voluntarily, in order to take the sting out 
of them. You who are free, accept a little slavery, 
that the slave may come to his own ; you will be the 
disciples of Christ, who has said, " Whosoever would 
be chief among you, let him be your servant; " and 
you will be the children of God, the only true 
Master, Before Him those who command and those 
who obey are equal; and yet, having in His hands 
the power and the glory. He is Himself, none the 
less, in the widest sense of the word, the servant of 
servants, for from the drops of blood in our veins 
to the giant worlds revolving in the heavens, all 
things are held together by His care. 

^ -x- -Sf -x- * 

I have assembled in the depths of my remem- 
brance a band of admirable people whom I have 
had the fortune to encounter as I passed through 



OUR SERVANTS 147 

life. They belong to all the social classes^ all relig- 
ions^ all professions. When I am wearied by nar- 
rowness and prejudice^ disgusted with the sight of 
pretension^ ambition^ and stupid egoism^ I take 
refuge among this society within me; there my 
spirit is soothed and reinspired. And among these 
upright souls^ the thought of whom is so strengthen- 
ing and so preventive of pessimism^ are some humble 
servants. I find it impossible to express the ven- 
eration they inspire in me^ or the good I have got 
from contact with their simple and faithful spirit; 
but I rejoice that at least in the inner sanctuary, 
where all fictitious greatness and conventional values 
fade away^ I can offer them the fulness of a pure 
and religious tribute. 



X 

OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 

TO every normal home there belongs at least 
one animal^ most likely a dog or a eat^ that 
is often looked upon as a member of the 
family, is the friend of everybody, and the spe- 
cial j oy of the children. Sometimes he protects the 
little folks, he is always the companion of their 
play, and in hours of illness or disgrace, he is their 
chief consolation. The dog especially is good for 
everything. He serves as a horse, and when one is 
tired of play, he makes the best of pillows. Then 
there are the donkeys, patient little beasts ! — ^the 
head and front of every excursion, who carry at 
once the picnickers and the luncheon, or draw a 
whole joyous brood behind in a cart. At the jour- 
ney's end they are caressed and feasted. To make 
their grass and thistles more toothsome, everybody 
shares his bread with them, and for dessert they are 
gormandised with lumps of sugar. 

Those who are acquainted with life in the fields 
148 



OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 149 

and mountains^ know what a place may be held in 
a family by a cow or a goat. Among the little 
people^ it becomes a veritable part of providence; 
indeed^ there are no children remembrances^ espe- 
cially of the country_, that have not animals con- 
nected with them^ and animals often have their share 
in the most important events of child life and in the 
earliest recollections. There is indisputably a place 
for them here; let us talk of them a little; we may 
cancel a debt of gratitude^ and at the same time take 
a little diversion — play truant^ as it were. 

Men are not always entertaining. There come 
times when we tire of the affairs even of those we 
love^ and it rests us to turn our attention to these 
simple and innocent creatures who have not dipped 
into our hypocrisies and chicanery, or adopted our 
complicated systems of thought or our insatiable 
desires and fictitious needs. 

«3f -x- * -x- -x- 

Yet, if we observe animals closely, we very soon 
see their analogy with men ; for if in rdan there are 
vestiges of the brute, in the brute there are traces 
of man. Domestic animals especially bear our 
stamp. Not only are they infected with our ten- 
dencies to wrongdoing, crippled by our cruelty, and 



150 BY THE FIRESIDE 

made less hardy by contact with our unsanitary 
civilisation^ but they are also refined by our society, 
humanised after a fashion by their long commerce 
with man. Somewhat of the human soul has passed 
into the dim souls of these lower companions. Soli- 
darity does not end with our race; beneficent or 
fatal, it extends beyond us. 

•Jf -x- * * * 

The sight of long trains of jaded horses, galled, 
spavined, and foot-sore, on their way from the horse 
market to the abattoir, fills me with sadness. These 
are some of the vanquished in the battle of life, and 
they remind me of all the others whom the pon- 
derous and homicidal machinery of our social order 
breaks under its wheels. They bleed for our evil- 
doing, they sink under our burdens, they succumb 
beneath our miseries, they suffer for our faults 
while we enjoy their benefits. In their resignation, 
in their ruin, unmerited and unrecompensed, there is 
for me a divine symbolism of all innocent suffering, 
which opens a vista into infinite depths. When I 
look upon these creatures spent and weary, I can- 
not help thinking of the great redemptive suffering 
through which the world is saved, and of the penal- 
ties of the guilty laid upon the Just. Do not let this 



OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 151 

thought offend you^ readers who profess and call 
yourselves Christians; remember rather that 
throughout the ages the Christ has been to men the 
Lamb of God. For myself^ I like to remember that 
on that day when the Son of Man entered Jerusalem 
amid acclamations^ it pleased Him to associate with 
His triumph thp most despised and maltreated of 
domestic animals^ that drudge whose ceaseless por- 
tion is burdens and blows — the ass. 

•X- -x- -se- "3f * 

There is a dainty little beetle called in some coun- 
tries ladybird^ in others " God's fool/* which chil- 
dren are careful not to kill. If one falls into the 
water, they throw in leaves or blades of grass for 
its rescue; if it is stiff with cold^ they warm it in 
their hands ; if they find one imprisoned in a room, 
they open the window and give it liberty; for in 
their eyes the pretty beetle is sacred. It has power- 
ful patrons and must not be tormented_, this little 
namesake of the Virgin and ward of the good God, 
with its shiny shards strewn with gleaming points 
like stars in a sky. 

I have kept always these childish notions, only 
that all animals appeal to my religious instincts, 
have become to me " God's fools.'' What touches 



152 BY THE FIRESIDE 

me most in Saint Francis of Assisi is his love for 
them^ and when he gives them affectionate titles and 
calls them his brothers and sisters^ I find him alto- 
gether charming. It did not hinder him from loving 
men and appreciating human dignity. 

* -je- -x- •}«• * 

Some of our kind give their attention to enumera- 
ting the characteristics which distinguish them from 
the brutes, summing up their superiorities, their 
titles of nobility, in short, glorifying themselves at 
the expense of all creation that has not the distinc- 
tion — ^to use a famous formula — of being a feather- 
less biped. What a puerile pastime, and what a 
demonstration of the fact that of all creatures, 
creeping, crawling, running, swimming or flying, 
man alone is a *' stupid animal " ! What could be 
more inane in a human than to profit from the sight 
of a poor beast to draw comparisons gratifying to 
his vanity, and to repeat, with a horse, a toad, or a 
canary in mind, the time-worn prayer of the Phar- 
isee : **I thank Thee that I am not as others" } Could 
anything be less respectful toward the Creator who 
made us all } Man flatters himself that he is greater 
than the other beings peopling the world about him, 
as if in any creature there were other merit than 



OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 153 

that of its Creator^ or as if another than He could 
measure any creature's merit or know its beginning 
and its end ! The true quest for each of us_, it seems 
to me^ is the seeking out of God's design for him. 
I should not mind being an ant, provided I were an 
ant after God's own heart. 

* * -je- * * 

If animals have contemners without a cause^ whom 
the simple idea of relationship with them hinders 
from sleep, they have others who in a way are j ustly 
moved against them; but these they owe to the in- 
discretion of their friends. Some people are greatly 
offended at thought of the time, the attention, and 
the exaggerated tenderness, lavished upon animals. 
It disgusts them to see blanketed dogs with umbrel- 
las perched on their backs, or pet monkeys riding 
in carriages. They cry out against abusing and 
neglecting men, to give attention and sympathy to 
beasts. Their indignation is just: but what can the 
beasts do if their friends lack discernment ? 

And even concerning these injudicious friends, 
before casting our stone, let us be sure that our un- 
derstanding is right, for the origin of attachment 
to an animal is sometimes very touching. We are 
wrong to find fault with those to whom life and men 



154 BY THE FIRESIDE 

have refused love^ for getting what solace they can 
from the affection of a beast. An inner view often 
makes such things less ridiculous^ if it leaves them 
ridiculous at all; it may rouse our interest, awaken 
our pity or even our admiration. Who can estimate 
the sum of wasted tenderness, of suppressed affec- 
tion, of good and pure love, unbestowed in this poor 
world of ours? To be astonished that people eat 
black bread instead of white, use crutches in de- 
fault of sound limbs, liglit a brazier in the absence 
of the sun, does not reflect much credit upon any- 
body, and one must needs know very little of the 
human lieart, its imperious need of devotion, love, 
sociability, not to understand the place an animal 
may come to hold in the life of a man. 

I once knew an aged woman of high birth, and 
wealthy, who had lost all her family, and was left 
in the world with only one familiar companion, a 
little black dog, extremely affectionate and de- 
monstrative. He guarded her door by night, and 
drove out with her by day, or lay beside her bed 
when she was ill. One day the gentle little fellow 
was struck by a horse's lioof and instantly killed. 
When I learned of the accident, I knew what desola- 
tion it must cause, and I went to express to the suf- 



OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 155 

ferer my heartfelt condolence. At the same time I 
told her the story of an octogenarian, living alone 
in a sixth-story room, and ill, who refused to go to 
a hospital because it would leave without a home 
his last friend, his dog. No one had been able to 
understand tlie obstinacy of the old man, and every- 
body called him a fool, but she understood, and she 
offered a little pension for the keeping of the dog. 
The old man, quite satisfied, was taken to tlie hos- 
pital, where from time to time he could see his faith- 
ful companion. Of what must a man be made to 
^nd such things ridiculous? 

•X- -if -X- -Jf -Jf 

I number among my friends a certain little dog 
named Tom. He travelled over the greater part of 
Europe when his young master was in pursuit of his 
studies, the only representative with him of the ab- 
sent family; one was never seen without tlie other, 
and whoever invited the master, invited tlie dog. 

To-day, of the two inseparables only one is left. 
Cut down in the flower of his youth, the young 
master went away with the glories of the summer, 
leaving his place empty at the table and beside the 
hearth. But with the loss, the little living Tom be- 
came sacred, a continual reminder of the dear one 



156 BY THE FIRESIDE 

absent. When his master and mistress sit together 
thinking of their son^ it is very sweet to their 
wounded hearts to have at their feet the little fellow 
so beloved by their child^ and so devoted to his 
memory that for many a long day he refused all 
food — ^the faithful little Tom who^ whenever he is 
taken to the railway station^ still imagines he is 
going to meet his lost master^ and when he finds 
his mistake^ appeals to his friends with such piteous 
eyes. And you think such an animal should not be 
loved } 

***** 

Along a quay in Paris^ every day without fail, you 
may see a middle-aged woman^ almost a dwarf, 
promenading with a dog. At the first glance you 
perceive that it is the woman who accompanies the 
dog, and not the dog the woman. And so this dog 
has a hired companion ? Why, yes ! 

The animal is old, slow, rheumatic, a fat grey 
spaniel, his eyes shaded with long hair. When he 
moves, his companion follows: when he stops, she 
stops too. He chooses his direction and passes from 
the sun into the shade at will. From time to time 
he shows a desire to lie down, and then a carpet is 
spread on the ground for him. 



OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 157 

It is almost shocking to see a dog served in this 
way by a human beings but I ought to add that the 
little woman does not seem to suspect it : nothing in 
her face suggests wounded dignity. Good-natured, 
attentive to her charge, she seems quite satisfied with 
her lot. And in truth, when we learn their story, 
there is nothing surprising in it. The dog belonged 
to a naval officer, who died in the colonies. When 
he sailed from home he left the dog in the care of 
his family, and now some of the reverence we give 
to the dead is shown by them in fulfilling his charge. 
For years the dog has been the visible sign of his 
master. The poor woman who cares for him would 
never admit that he should be classed with other 
dogs, and, in her imderstanding of it, she is right; 
but the working-man passing does not know the 
story, and waxes wroth over the pride and preten- 
sion of the bourgeoisie. 

•X- "X- * -x- * 

Man has more returns for his devotion to animals 
than we might casually think, and a beast is often 
of the greatest consolation to his master. I have 
known men calumniated, hounded, upon whom their 
fellows had inflicted the worst moral tortures; and 
when they had reached a stage bordering on des- 



158 BY THE FIRESIDE 

peration^ I have seen them suddenly take heart 
again or melt into tears at sight of a favourite horse 
or under the caresses of a faithful dog. These, at 
least, remained to them, had confidence in them, 
would never change. One must have been pelted 
with the mud of the calumniators, have endured the 
looks askance of doubting friends; he must have 
been denied justice, steeped in suspicion, deserted 
by everybody, to know the depths of consolation 
that may lie in being able to say to a faithful brute : 
" You, at least, believe in me ! " 

One day in the heat of his struggle, the great 
Luther, harassed, disheartened, full of anxious pre- 
sentiments, threw himself down by a pathway in the 
forest; he was passing through a trying hour, one 
of those hours in which he had once envied the dead. 
Suddenly a robin redbreast of the woods came sing- 
ing, and lighted on a neighbouring bush. The re- 
former fixed his eyes upon the bird and observed it 
thoughtfully, till like a ray of sunshine the charm 
of this care-free guest of the forests crept into his 
soul. He thought within himself, " This little creat- 
ure knows nothing of God or of the Saviour; its 
life is exposed to a thousand dangers; countless 
enemies lie in wait for it day and night; it does not 



OUR ANIMAL FRIENDS 159 

know how it will live to-morrow or in the coming 
winter. Then why is it so tranquil and confident? 
The God whom it knows not has given it to rest its 
cares upon Him; it sings as the lily flowers, as the 
brook murmurs. And I who adore our Heavenly 
Father — I was sinking into despair, believing that 
everything is lost ! " And comforted he committed 
himself to God, and went his way. He had learned 
that man may have need of his little brothers of 
the wild. 

* -x- -x- * * 

The death of beloved animals that have grown up 
with us, is one of our earliest griefs. Their life is 
short: but have you ever seen them die? If you 
have you will acknowledge with me that it is as un- 
just to say " die like a beast,'' as it is inexact to say 
** live like a beast." These locutions stand for lives 
base and vile, and deaths that inspire terror and 
disgust, whffe, in point of fact, the brutes are not 
bestial; they are neither intemperate nor vicious, 
unless their contact with man has mdde them so, 
and when they die, it is with patience and sim- 
plicity, sometimes with courage; they do not make 
such an affair of quitting the world. It is to be 
wished that the death of the majority of men were 



160 BY THE FIRESIDE 

not more disordered, more repellent, more an- 
guished than theirs. 

For myself, by the least of God's creatures that 
is nearing its end here, at the sight of wilting flow- 
ers or a bird falling to the ground, as well as be- 
side the expiring light of genius, my mind turns to 
the great mystery of life, to the eternal design to 
which all things conform; and if I see nothing de- 
part without a feeling of sadness, neither do I ever 
fail to be reminded that great and small, obscure 
instinct and luminous mind, all flow from the same 
source, make part of the same tremendous plan. 
Can that which comes from Life return to chaos? 
Is not the sadness we feel at the sight of death, a 
suggestion, a presentiment.^ Can a work of God 
have an end? 



XI 

ORDER IN THE HOUSE 

HAVE you a love of order ? To say that I 
have, falls short of the truth ; I respect it 
almost to the point of veneration. But if 
I am its devotee, the thought of order humiliates 
me, for I am far from being always faithful, and 
with my pleasure in discussing the subject here, 
there mingles some regret and embarrassment. One 
thought comforts me, that many of my readers are 
with me in this matter. It isn't always what we 
find most admirable that we practise most assid- 
uously. 

Order appears to me like a triumph of mind over 
matter, over the elements, over confusing and con- 
founding forces. Order is the luminary, the tran- 
quilliser, the moderator, the supporter of toil ; it is 
life's voucher. Without it what would a city of 
men be? a flock, a swarm, without aim or law, in 
need of going to school to the ants or the bees. But 

161 



162 BY THE FIRESIDE 

my intention is to speak of order in the home^ where 
it consists primarily in keeping everything in its 
place. 

We enter a room in such disorder that we might 
fancy ourselves in an antiquity shop or a moving- 
van. The pieces of furniture have the air of 
frightened creatures surprised to find themselves 
together. There are books in distress^ lost keys^ and 
faded bouquets^ the remnants of some past feast. 
A violin forgotten on a chair^ sets one dreaming 
darkly : where is the musician ? Everything is sub- 
dued by a vague coat of dust. You might surmise 
that the inhabitants of the place^ overtaken by some 
disaster^ had fled long ago^ and no one knows 
whither. Open a drawer^ a closet^ a child's satchel 
of books ; you find only so many new forms of dis- 
order. What results upon family life can such a 
state of things have.'* And it may be found in all 
social ranks. 

The first result is chronic ill-humour ; disorder in- 
duces sulkings and frowns. It greets us when we 
wake in the mornings receives us when we get out 
of bed^ and indisposes us for the day. Moreover, 
it is a perpetual reproach. 

And if disorder makes us lose our temper, it also 



ORDER IN THE HOUSE 163 

makes us lose our time. When nothing is in its 
place^ we must organise searching parties to supply 
our slightest needs. Veritable excavations have to 
be made in boxes and drawers^ as in archives ravaged 
by a fire. The world is full of these explorers^ who 
have always lost somethings who can't find their 
tools^ their letters^ their clothes. Do they wish to 
dress ? they turn the house upside down. ** Where 
are my gloves ? Haven't you seen my cravat ? What 
has become of that light blue ribbon? Who has 
taken my crochet-hook? " Notice that these dis- 
orderly people easily become suspicious; somebody 
has always taken their things. 

They never count their money. It seems to them 
that night before last there was a dollar in their 
pocket-book ! Where has it gone ? If they had or- 
derly habits they would know that they had spent 
it^ and for what. But they haven't^ so here they are 
suspecting their companions or the servants. The 
same people pay twice^ without knowing it^ the bill 
of a dishonest upholsterer or one careless like them- 
selves; but the next day^ to the poor dressmaker 
who presents her account they say: ** Oh, you must 
be mistaken ! I've paid that bill." And thereupon 
they dive into a scattered confusion of papers^ 



164 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tumble them over like a Russian salad^ exhume 
bundles yellowed with age^ and in passing find some- 
thing important that has been mislaid for years. 
Meanwhile the poor dressmaker waits impatiently, 
and, when she is finally paid, goes off tired out and 
suspicious. 

Disorderly people are always late, always hur- 
ried. As long as they think they have time enough, 
nothing can draw them out of their lethargy, but at 
the last moment a fever seizes them and they stir up 
the whole household. They are the bane of their 
travelling companions, the despair of those who 
have appointments with them, the scourge of enter- 
tainments or their laughing-stock. Can't we hear 
now this speech ringing in our ears ? — ** Here come 

the X 's; that means that the evening is 

over!" 

There are times when disorder becomes danger, 
either threatening the safety or the life of those 
intrusted to our care, or depriving us of a thing at 
the moment when we need it most. From failure 
to have at hand on the instant some package, some 
key, some remedy, we stand by as helpless specta- 
tors of a disaster. The door will not open, the alarm 
will not sound, the antidote is found too late. 



ORDER IN THE HOUSE 165 

" Fatality! '' we cry; but we ought to cry, '' Dis- 
order!" 

* -x- ^ -x- * 

Disorderly people never own to their delinquen- 
cies: would they continue as they are, if they saw 
themselves such as they are — irritating, half -de- 
mented and ridiculous? They prefer to deride 
orderly people and call them monomaniacs. Cer- 
tainly everything may be exaggerated, even order; 
in some homes it degenerates into tyranny and a 
sort of madness — where, for instance, everything is 
under triple lock and key, and to supply one's self 
with a drinking glass or a handkerchief is an affair 
of state. 

There are also' sticklers for over-neatness, who 
persecute you for a grain of dust on your clothing 
or a problematic particle of mud on your shoes. I 
was once familiar with a provincial home, painfully 
neat, where the visitor was seized at the door, to be 
brushed, shaken, and slippered. Not till this was 
over could he penetrate to the drawing-room. Once 
there, he was expected to keep his feet on a stool 
placed in front of his chair for that purpose, and if 
he showed signs of pushing it aside, it was care- 
fully replaced for him. The table was exquisite, 



166 BY THE FIRESIDE 

but woe to him who let fall a drop of wine on the 
cloth! He was lost forever in the eyes of his 
hostess. 

I have also sometimes been struck with what we 
might call a f etichism of furniture : nothing must be 
touched^ nothing is to be used. That an easy-chair 
is to sit in^ a rug to walk over^ china to eat f rom^ 
is a stupid enough idea^ quite worthy of vulgar 
minds. Man, who passes, should consecrate himself 
to furniture, which endures. If the cabinet is in 
your way, hinders your work, cuts off your light, 
^ move, but don't move the cabinet, it is there for life. 
Manifestly all this is absurd and well excites pro- 
test, but I shall not betake myself to the camp of 
the disorderly on that account. It is easy to deride 
people painfully neat and over-punctual; it would 
be better to imitate their virtues. 

Only those who learn to bring order into life do 
not lose life. Business is first of all things order: 
science also is order. Without method the most 
charming acquirements, like the best sustained 
notes, bring forth only confusion. 

So wherever I find order, there I gladly sojourn 
awhile. And if it is pleasing in the homes of the 
rich, where many hands contribute to its keeping, it 



ORDER IN THE HOUSE 167 

is more worthy of admiration in the homes of the 
poor. The wife of a labourer^ who keeps her home 
and her children rieat^ has order in her rooms^ her 
dress and her expenditures^ seems to me possessed 
of very great merit ; for I know what energy, vigi- 
lance and ceaseless planning is behind it all. It is 
a comfort to come in contact with these virtues ; in 
the company of a man of order and organisation^ I 
feel at ease; I get strength from him^ knowledge 
and inspiration. When I leave him I seem to have 
been breathing a pure and vivifying atmosphere. 

Order is a power in education^ and if we have 
never acquired it for our own sake^ let us at least 
bring it into the household for the sake of our chil- 
dren. In a home unorganised^ without fixed hours 
for workings eatings and sleeping/ there is only 
anarchy and confusion^ and any sort of education is 
impossible. The child should be accustomed to 
rules of life that are observed by every one around 
him. Thus he learns to march in the ranks_, to pro- 
tect the rights of others^ to make concessions to the 
general interest^ to discipline his movements. In a 
well-directed household^ where everybody is re- 
spectful of the common law^ submits himself to the 
hours^ and consents to put back in their places the 



168 BY THE FIRESIDE 

things that he uses^ few words are heard^ few out- 
cries or explanations, but a great deal of work is 
done. Each member of the family is at his post^ 
and his work fits into his neighbour's. 

Strong-minded people^ so-called, who rise against 
the rules of the house, are really shallow-pated. 
Under pretext of independence, they organise an 
intolerable slavery; to escape disturbing themselves, 
they disturb everybody else ; to avoid hurrying, they 
make other people wait for them, a particularly 
characteristic impertinence. It is very difficult for 
them to share any life with others, whether of study 
or toil, or even of pleasure. 

Order is needful everywhere ; let the home be the 
first school to teach it; its efforts will be rewarded 
both in the peace and satisfaction of its own circle 
and in the future careers of its members. 



XII 

WOMAN'S WORK 

''^^^HILDREN, clear the table, the watch 
m^ . is at our house to-night, the spinners 
will soon be coming ! " 

How many times, on winter evenings in Alsace, 
have I heard those words, and how straightway did 
I always run to hide behind the great woodbox by 
the monumental stove! For there I should see, 
without being seen, all that would soon be going on 
in the room, and should not lose a word of what was 
said. Best of all, I might perhaps have the good 
fortune to be forgotten, and to escape the shock of 
the dread announcement: '* Charles, it is time for 
you to go to bed." 

The room, vast and open, had the air of awaiting 
guests, and soon there came a sound of little sabots 
outside, making repeated tick-tacks against the stone 
steps, to shake off the snow, and you heard laughter 
in the hallway where the lanterns were being blown 
out and stationed in a row. Then they entered the 

169 



170 BY THE FIRESIDE 

room^ the brave peasant lassies_, each more blooming 
and fresh than the other^ and each carrying her 
wheel, always a work of art and often the gift of 
her fiance. On the thick distaffs wound with flax, 
splendid ribbons were interlaced in spirals, ribbons 
which, the spring before, had floated from the hat 
of some village conscript. Where better than on the 
valiant distaffs could they witness to faithful re- 
membrance.'* The spinners took their places all 
about the square table and at once began to spin. 
Now we should see who would make the most thread, 
fine, firm, and even ! 

A little later comes a new sound of sabots under 
the windows, but larger sabots this time, which an- 
nounce the arrival of the village lads. One of them 
knocks at the door, half -opens it, and demands en- 
trance. Several voices reply: "Have you your 
wheels ? if not you may stay outside ; we don't let in 
idlers." But before long the mistress of the house 
interferes. "Come, come, my dears! don't leave 
them languishing at the door; let them come in; they 
are all welcome, if they will be good." And now in 
Indian file a half dozen sturdy peasant lads come 
in, and go sit down modestly in the dimmest corners. 

The wheels turn, turn, whirring deliciously, a 



WOMAN'S WORK 171 

quiet conversation accompanying them^ and often 
some story-teller weaving a tale^ always too short 
for her listeners. No picture of village life simple 
and laborious^ has ever seemed to me more charm- 
ing than this. But '' where are the snows of yester- 
year.^ " 

To-day there is no longer any economic profit in 
patiently spinning one's own flax through the long 
winter evenings. The wheels have gone into the 
attics along with the brass-buttoned coats of our 
grandfathers, and there the two fraternise in the 
dust, while the village youths crowd the taverns. 
Through the regret I have for these scenes of the 
past, I better perceive the significance of hereditary 
customs. The thread that your diligent hands 
twisted, daughters of my country, was something 
beside material for the fine clothing to make up 
your trousseaux and the snowy linen to heap your 
spotless chests ; it was the thread that held in leash 
love, the happiness of home, and the joys of youth. 
^ ^ * * ^ 

We must not despise economic laws, nor fly in the 
face of social transformations, as laudatores tern- 
poris actL But it is quite permissible to call atten- 
tion to what certain customs have made us lose, espe- 



172 BY THE FIRESIDE 

daily when the loss affects the property of the 
soul. 

The fabrics coming from our modern looms are 
finer than those woven by the housewives of the 
olden time ; but^ while I admire their technical per- 
fection^ they do not produce upon me at all the same 
effect; they cost less, but they lack so many things 
whose worth cannot be estimated in figures ! There 
was poetry, kindness, remembrance, love, woven into 
the old tissues, and I cling to such things, humanity 
has need of them, they are part of the inner treas- 
ure from which the heart of man is fed. Have you 
ever, in a strange country, far from home, unpacked 
some little article of apparel made by your mother 
or your sisters, and felt the pure joy of putting it 
on? Then you understand me. And you will un- 
derstand better still, who wear and respect as one 
does an amulet, some old bit become a treasure in 
your eyes since the hands that made it rest from 
their labours. You say, " I am attached to this, it is 
something from my mother that I still have ; I shall 
never part with it." How in the right of it you 
are, though you were offered in exchange some 
marvel come in all its radiant newness from the 
shops ! 



WOMAN'S WORK 173 

The economic conditions of the world change; 
the human heart remains the same. Let us try so to 
order life that the heart shall not lose too much by 
these changes; and I believe there is a way. To 
accomplish it^ woman has only to remain woman. 
Having lost the spinning wheel, she will invent 
something in its place; in one way or another her 
fingers will catch up once more the thread by which 
love holds, for in these fingers there is magic. 



There is a certain special art, which is neither 
painting, music, nor sculpture, and yet is the su- 
preme art: it consists in putting soul into material 
things. Woman has this art by instinct, but it must 
be developed. One of its enemies is the machinery 
that makes articles by the dozen, deprived of all 
personal mark. This machinery has invaded the 
domain of the home, of dress, all the domains that 
gave occupation to woman's art in creations always 
novel and exhaustless in fertile fancy. Let us de- 
clare war against it ! Let us have for it the hatred 
of the living for an automaton, of the musician for 
an orchestrion, of the prophet for the sacred par- 
rots. Who will deliver us from its stupid tyranny? 



174 BY THE FIRESIDE 

It does the work of all trades^ the wretched thing ! 
And one of those it most displeases me to have it 
meddle with is cookery. It is as repugnant to me 
to have cookery become mechanical^ characterless, to 
see it replaced by ready-made products, as it would 
be to listen to the Homeric poems or the Sermon 
on the Mount from a talking machine. It is a 
sign of decadence, of dissolution, family and 
social. 

You will accuse me of being a gourmand, of at- 
taching importance to that which has none; but if 
you will take the trouble to read, you may discern my 
intention. It is in behalf of the heart and the 
reason that I interest myself in the cuisine, infinitely 
more than from any physiological stand-point. The 
family table is not a lunch counter where one comes 
to replenish his needs in the shortest possible order ; 
it is a symbol. When Christ wished to choose for 
all time a striking type of brotherhood and of 
mutual good-will, he instituted the eucharist. The 
meal and the manner of preparing and serving it, is 
a portrait of life, and in its diverse forms reflects 
the perfection or the vulgarity of a civilisation. The 
whole meal has a moral and spiritual significance, 
its least detail stands for something, plays its part. 



WOMAN'S WORK 175 

The neatness, the care, the cordiality, the conversa- 
tion found at a table, are among our highest inter- 
ests ; and it is not a matter of indifference what we 
eat. The preparing and offering of food is one of 
the best means of expressing feeling. After an ill- 
ness, when the doctor permits you to take your first 
food, be it only an Ggg in the shell, are you indif- 
ferent to the way this simple meal is served you? 
does the hand that offers it signify nothing? do 
you not find it more palatable if it is brought you 
with a smile and a kind word? And if some one 
says to you, "Come, eat this, I prepared it myself, it 
will do you good,'' do you not feel a greater satis- 
faction still? For myself, I do, even when I am 
well, and I believe a great many people agree with 
me. 

I have observed with sadness what goes on in the 
homes of labouring-men, when the wife ceases to do 
her own cooking, simply for the sake of convenience. 
I am not speaking of the cases where necessity com- 
pels it : no one is required to do the impossible. But 
around me I see numbers of modest homes where 
the wife is content when meal time comes to run to 
the delicatessen shop. She brings back something 
that is hastily consumed out of its wrappings with- 



176 BY THE FIRESIDE 

out even sitting down at table. That is the quickest 
way; it saves going to market, lighting the fire, and 
washing the dishes. 

What an abominable practice it is, and to be con- 
demned if on the side of hygiene alone. Heaven 
knows what such food is made of, and what germs 
it deposits in the system in course of time ! Thou- 
sands of families undermine their health by this 
process. But from the moral point of view, the 
pity is greater still. 

For the father, for the young people working in 
shops or offices, for the children yet in school, to see 
when they come in at the end of the day the soup 
steaming on the carefully set table, is not only to 
find a little comfort, it is to know that tenderness 
guards their little home, that some one has been 
thinking of them while they were away, in fine, that 
some one loves them. And who will deny that a little 
tenderness is as necessary to man as a morsel of 
bread? The women of the labouring classes who 
make good homes have more difficulty than others, 
but their recompense is to see their husbands and 
sons stay with them. It is well worth the trouble of 
building a fire ! 



WOMAN'S WORK 177 

Outside of economic considerations, which cer- 
tainly are not to be disregarded, woman, in all 
classes of society, has good reason for giving atten- 
tion to her kitchen. It is one of the provinces of 
her kingdom, one of the levers of her influence as 
mother and wife. Do not say, " I shall have a 
cook " ; how can you direct her if you do not know 
her trade .^ And if she sees that you do not, from 
a certain point of view you become her inferior. 

Let woman not permit herself to be supplanted 
in what belongs to her practical life ; let her not be 
content with superficial knowledge of these things, 
nor disdain them as inferior occupations. This 
would be to fail not only as an organiser but as a 
seer. The better you understand a business, the 
less it bothers you, and the more independent you 
are when unforeseen difficulties arise. If you wish 
the spiritual to dominate over the material in your 
home, see that you have the material well in hand, 
and possess the secret of doing the necessary with- 
out seeming to. 

What opinion have you of lovers who copy their 
letters from a " perfect letter-writer " } I would 
put in the same rank housekeepers dependent upon 
their maids and market-men, incapable themselves 



178 BY THE FIRESIDE 

of concocting a dish or ordering a dinner. Long live 
the dishes that housewives invent and prepare or 
oversee themselves! Long live the table that has 
individuality^ into whose menu the hostess puts 
somewhat of her thought and hearty and which nour- 
ishes the soul at the same time that it strengthens 
the body ! And above all^ long live the woman who 
can put her hands into the dough, and be none the 
less gracious and immaculate for that! 

To know how to serve one's self with one's own 
fingers_, to cook, make a dress, design a hat, is not 
simply material capital, it is a moral resource. Ac- 
tivity with the hands is the best guardian of hearts, 
and I pity idle women more than I blame them. 
Their punishment is restlessness, frivolity, unwhole- 
some reading, and empty talk; to be always on the 
search for new emotions and never satisfied. 
***■}«• -x- 

But all these material cares must be stultifying 
to intellectuality; so much practical aptitude and 
knowledge must hamper the mind and narrow the 
horizon. 

Believe me, you deceive yourself. Outside of an 
absorbing career like medicine or teaching, a woman 
may give her attention to housekeeping and not in- 



WOMAN'S WORK 179 

terfere with her culture; in fact^ a little practical 
life is a great aid to the understanding. And even 
though I were a teacher^ I should like sometimes to 
divert myself from mathematics and history by cul- 
tivating my garden; or were I a doctor, I should 
not be disdainful of prescribing for my patients a 
culinary regimen of my own invention. 

You see, then, that I think everything militates in 
favour of this practical education, and I want to add 
also that every woman should be somewhat of a 
nurse, and should be prepared for it from her girl- 
hood. A little essential knowledge of wounds and 
accidents, and some of the coolness and promptness 
that experience brings, are worth their weight in 
gold, and times come when we find it out. 

Each of us has a fund of special admiration, and 
often he is unfortunate enough to bestow the greater 
part of it unworthily; for myself, I give it to the 
work of woman's hands. The thought of the won- 
ders they quietly do in the shelter of the home, al- 
ways moves me profoundly. No department of 
human activity, neither trade nor science itself, has 
such mysterious depths. And to say that all this 
labour of good-will, power, and patience doesn't 
pay! Money has nothing to do with it; its pure 



180 BY THE FIRESIDE 

disinterestedness redeems many a mercenary act, 
and he who does not comprehend this does not know 
what man is, has no conception of our true riches, 
our intimate virtues. 

From the willing hands of the little girl just be- 
ginning to be useful, to help her mother and take 
upon herself a part of the burden, to the wrinkled 
and trembling hands of the grandmother, knitting 
still in spite of her dim-sighted eyes, all diligent 
hands are blessed, and God has made nothing else 
in His world to speak so eloquently of His goodness. 
For they not only know how to spin and to sew, to 
keep the house, do miracles of economy and cour- 
age, make masterpieces of taste; but they are also 
kind and compassionate. They soothe us in our 
babyhood, dry our first tears, guide our first steps, 
and later care for our wounds with a touch so deli- 
cate that we forget to complain when it is these 
hands that bind them up. 



XIII 
THE EVIL DAYS 

WE must not pass over the dark days of 
domestic lif e^ the days of common trials 
nor the years when we say " I have no 
pleasure in them/' And let us speak first of the 
lesser evils, those which have their source in pecu- 
liarities of nature and inequalities of temper. 

With vigilance and perseverance we may amend 
our dispositions, but no one can so become master 
of himself as never to yield to his wrong tendencies, 
especially when they are aroused by vexations with- 
out. We all know the days when according to the 
popular expression, nothing goes. Everybody gets 
up the wrong way. The weather plays its part ; it is 
lowering, depressing; and as though by some fatal- 
ity, these are the very days troublesome people 
choose to pay us visits, to talk on irritating subjects 
or send us disagreeable letters. Thanks to this com- 

181 



182 BY THE FIRESIDE 

bination of elements_, the home atmosphere becomes 
charged and threatening: there is storm in the air, 
and mutterings do not fail to make themselves 
heard. But it is not at all rare for the morrow to 
find everything transformed. The smi rises in a 
purified atmosphere, the mists are dissipated, every- 
body is smiling, and by his attitude toward every- 
body else, shows his regret at having been insuffer- 
able the day before. All the injury is repaired and 
pardoned. After the clouds, the sun. 

But when differences arise over points of some im- 
portance, differences coming from really opposite 
views on questions of belief, tastes or interests, the 
matter is more serious. At bottom we love one an- 
other, appreciate one another, but discussions arise 
unexpectedly, things jar, and the whole family suf- 
fers. And if by ill-fortune at one of these critical 
moments some injudicious friend meddles in the 
affair, secretly pleased to find other people at vari- 
ance, the situation is made worse. Happily there 
are friends of another spirit, helpful and pacific, 
who pour oil on the troubled waters; or conscience 
itself plays this part. Unless a false and stupid 
pride forbids our listening to the inward voice, 
reconciliation is never far away. Something comes 



THE EVIL DAYS 183 

from the best and deepest within us to say that the 
days are too precious to spend in sulking or in giv- 
ing one another pain. 

•X- "X- -Jf -x- * 

Among the evil days are the days when our chil- 
dren are disobedient or trying^ and we grow uneasy 
as to their future. Before character is fully formed 
or the bent of life determined^ we sometimes come 
to the point of asking ourselves in which direction 
these young beginners will turn. All indications of 
an upright nature and generous sentiments fill us 
with hopeful joy; but at times signs of bad augury 
multiply and apprehension possesses our souls. 
Happily these fears are for the most part exag- 
gerated, but we suffer from them none the less 
really, and when we reflect upon what it must be 
to have unworthy children, it is quite natural that 
simply the thought of such a disaster should make 
us tremble. 

Other days hard to bear are days of illness for 
those we love. Our hearts are heavy, and secret 
pain mingles with everything we do. But when con- 
valescence comes and then health, we range the ill- 
ness among the lesser evils; the present joy atones 
for the past grief, and no one thinks of complain- 



184 BY THE FIRESIDE 

ing. We love one another a little better^ and all 
the pain is forgotten. 

■X- -x- * * * 

But all illness does not end so^ and it is here that 
through the lesser evils we arrive at the greater. 

Perhaps health fails some one of our number. A 
little child droops and fades away^ or a young son 
in the flush and bloom of lif e^ attacked by some in- 
sidious malady^ sees his strength blasted^ his career 
ruined. Here is a heavy cross^ a perpetual burden 
for us all^ one of the great evils. 

Or even death comes. You have seen it from 
af ar^ as one sees in the distance a black cloud going 
to deal destruction elsewhere ; but now it comes near. 
From the live and perfect tree of your family lif e^ it 
detaches a twig^ wrests a branchy or^ worst of all^ it 
rends with its bolts the trunk itself. The wound is 
deep; it saps your strength and dims the radiance 
of your happiness^ perhaps forever. 

But there are circumstances that aggravate even 
these evils; death and separation may come in the 
midst of material changes. The social position we 
occupy furnishes a stable setting for all the events 
of our lives^ and^ so long as it remains unchanged, 
nothing that happens can transcend certain normal 



THE EVIL DAYS 185 

limits. The stroke comes in the surroundings of a 
customary existence^ with familiar obj ects and well- 
known faces about us^ and with our wonted occupa- 
tions and habits of life — friendly and helpful forces 
that they are — to sustain us. But not rarely all this 
stability is shaken and overthrown at the very hour 
of our bereavement. 

According to their social position^ the well-being 
of homes may be threatened by enforced idleness^ by 
industrial or financial crises or economic unrest^ by 
war^ famine^ or whatever circumstances bring serious 
modification to the common state of affairs. It is 
easy to see that the havoc wrought by such events 
becomes complicated and increased as soon as a 
family group is concerned instead of isolated indi- 
viduals. It is one thing to lose one's labour^ his for- 
tune or his position when he is alone ; it is quite an- 
other when he is responsible for a family^ for other 
souls. 

There have been epochs more disturbed^ more 
fruitful in upheavals than ours; yet the time in 
which we live is threatening enough^ and the in- 
stability of affairs not infrequently reaches an 
alarming point. Every day we hear of some one 
ruined^ and the repetition of these catastrophes 



186 BY THE FIRESIDE 

gives us the painful impression that the same thing 
may happen to anybody ; then why not to us ? 

How should we endure ruin^ poverty^ or even the 
sensible diminution of our means and curtailment in 
our style of living ? What effect upon us would pri- 
vation have and humiliation ? Grave questions these. 
Viewed from a distance and posed as theories only, 
they often appear easy to resolve; we stand firm 
in imaginary battles; but on the ground, it is less 
simple. So many things conspire against those 
whom ruin overtakes. We can never know in ad- 
vance either what we shall experience in the fire of 
trial, or how we shall endure it, and the vexatious 
delays of justice, the thousand complications of our 
social life, aggravate our misfortunes. The cup is 
rendered more bitter still by the accessories. Forced 
to empty it drop by drop, we are never sure that at 
the bottom some unsuspected dregs may not be 
lurking. 

And if only the misfortunes came singly ! But a 
proverb well designed to frighten us, tells us that 
they don't. They hold together, provoke one an- 
other and lead one another along. Struck in the 
matter of possessions, it is not rare to receive a blow 
to the affections at the same time. The misfortune 



THE EVIL DAYS 187 

that has come brings misunderstandings with 
friends^ makes them misjudge jou, perhaps sepa- 
rates you from your kin. And to crown all^ from 
your shipwrecked prosperity you are perhaps not 
able to save your good name. 

When the tempest has ceased to rage and you 
look about you^ you perceive its effects, which in the 
tension and excitement of action you had not time 
to notice. You find health undermined^ courage 
broken^ the wounded to mourn for^ and sometimes 
the dead. Such afflictions follow financial embar- 
rassments and ruin. 

Then the dark night settles round you^ sight 
grows dim_, courage falters^ human strength is no 
longer equal to the burden. He does not know what 
anguish is who has never passed with his loved ones 
through this ordeal. 

But there comes a worse proof still when to public 
ruin and disgrace and unjust accusation^ is added 
the distrust of those nearest you. Let your friends^ 
the members of your social circle^ your collaborators 
and your fellow-citizens judge and condemn you; so 
long as those of your own household keep their faith, 
there remains a star in your dark sky. But if it 
comes about that this last star is quenched, that your 



188 BY THE FIRESIDE 

wife and your children turn from you^ then I know 
of nothing to surpass the horror of your plight. 

Let us open up no more of these harsh perspec- 
tives upon family life, but ask what part the evil 
days play in it^ consider some of their consequences. 

The effect they produce is not the same for all, 
nor can their force be expressed in any general for- 
mula. They affect different families in different 
fashions, according to the inner value of the family 
life. Where order, education, and discipline are 
wanting, misfortunes are a signal for shipwreck; 
but where the training has been in firm hands, and 
there is mutual respect and love, they strengthen the 
family union. In the crucible of adversity, what is 
strong becomes purified, what is weak disintegrates. 
It is a sad but very common spectacle to see the 
members of disrupted families reproaching one an- 
other with their misfortunes; they envenom each 
other's wounds, touching them with unholy hands. 
This is the misfortune of misfortunes — not to love 
one another, not to understand one another, not- to 
be able to give and take brotherly sympathy and 
brotherly forgiveness. 

When a devoted and well-disciplined family falls 
upon evil days, immediately the ranks close up ; each 



THE EVIL DAYS 189 

one is at his post to do his duty. Never better than 
then do we feel the beauty of being able to count 
upon mutual fidelity. Support and sympathy on 
one side rouses courage on the other. We accept our 
losses and defeats with good heart, because we ac- 
cept them together; if we weep^ we do not weep 
alone^ and in comforting one another we forget our 
own share of the pain. To united families the evil 
days are like winter evenings. When it is dark and 
cold outside^ and for better protection the house- 
mates have shut themselves in and drawn closer to- 
gether^ the home is alive with warmth and cheer; 
while in fine weather they coursed the woods and 
mountains^ apart from one another^ now the threat- 
ening sky brings them all around one hearth^ the 
same fire-light strikes the faces of all. In dark days 
tenderness has inspirations and kindness uses sub- 
terfuge§i undreamt of when the skies are clear. 

Adversity is a great searcher of hearts. If it 
shows many in an unfavourable lights in others it 
dii^fcloses virtues unperceived before. Even husband 
and wif e^ parents and children^ brothers and sisters^ 
do not really know one another till they have strug- 
gled^ wept, suffered and prayed together. In the 
happy monotony of untroubled days^ the spirit of 



190 BY THE FIRESIDE 

devotion and sacrifice finds few occasions for man- 
ifesting itself^ and as though in an air too balmy 
and a soil too lights the noblest germs of our life 
develop but slowly. They need a firmer soil and the 
more rigorous and tonic climate of the dark days. 

There is a particularly precious fruit that ripens 
rarely under a sky forever serene^ but whose rich- 
ness is perfected in inclement weather; it is Pity. 
Unquestionably there are souls that misfortune sours 
or shuts up within themselves^ whom suffering blinds 
to the suffering of others. Many men are like those 
parents who cannot bear the sight of a child^ because 
of dear little heads missing from their own ranks, 
but whose sorrow is deepened every time they pass 
a joyous troop at play. I am not judging these 
parents : I understand them and pity them; but their 
experience is not the experience of all. How many 
there are who from weeping over little graves have 
come to feel a tenderness for all children^, especially 
those who suffer. Grief has purified and widened 
their paternal and maternal love, the little one they 
mourn pleads the cause of other children in the 
depths of their wounded hearts, and out of love for 
him they smile at childish joy, or open their arms 
to innocent victims of precocious suffering. 



THE EVIL DAYS 191 

Then not aU that the evil days bring is to be re- 
gretted. We are like sailors, who prefer fine 
weather, but owe their best qualities to days of hard- 
ship and danger. When the sky is serene, the sea 
blue and winds favourable, a sailor's life is full of 
charm; but what severe beauty it gains when the 
clouds shut down and the sea turns hostile ! Among 
the greatest inventions of man I count the ship, 
forging ahead in spite of winds, tides, and darkness, 
through the combined efforts of a picked crew. And 
I compare it with a family battling against adver- 
sity, happy, indeed, if, like the sailors, its members 
have cultivated in days of calm the discipline which 
develops strength, the fraternity that steels cour- 
age ; happier yet if in the darkness where no beacon 
points the way, they have learned to look to the 
compass that never deceives, to get their bearings 
from the sure and stable line of conscience, where- 
in God Himself traces across the night the unfail- 
ing path toward the day. 



XIV 

FAIR WEATHER 

ALL times are fair in which we love one 
another^ though they be full of trouble 
otherwise; and days of health are fair 
days^ and days of vigourous toil, and days of happy 
meetings with friends. The days are fair days, too, 
in which we give ourselves some respite from our 
labours — in short, the days of play. 

In thinking of these play-days, I have in mind 
only the simplest family amusements, accessible to 
everybody; and chief among them those we may 
give our children in our own homes. There is not 
the slightest need of being rich to carry them out; 
the only expenditure demanded is of heart and en- 
thusiasm. One condition, however, seems to me 
almost indispensable, that is, a group of several 
children ; an only child is hard to amuse. 

We all know how much a wife may do for her 
husband through certain little expedients that 
make home attractive to him. Whether this home 

19^ 



FAIR WEATHER 193 

is simple or luxurious has nothing to do with the 
matter^ provided the husband feels at ease there 
and sees that he is loved. In like fashion parents 
can do much to make a home attractive to children. 

When old birds quarrel in their nests^ the young 
take early flight. So, too, many young people are 
lost to their homes, because at table and in all 
leisure moments, the time is filled with the wran- 
glings of their parents. They find refuge where 
ever they can outside; the hearth no longer warms 
their hearts. 

On the other hand, in some families there is good 
understanding, good intention and peace, but a 
great lack of discernment. The parents are happy 
together, and have much affection for their chil- 
dren, but the children do not have enough diver- 
sion; and yet, when this is suggested to those kind 
and good parents, they feel hurt. The children 
seem to them ungrateful, exacting, very wrong not 
to content themselves with what they have. They 
are habitually called to order if they laugh too 
loud, or disturb anything about the house. There 
is a long list of parents who are protectionists, 
forever protecting themselves against the trouble 
that might result to them through the entertain- 



194 BY THE FIRESIDE 

ment of their children. By the number of their 
prohibitions^ they make the home a cage, and it is 
very rare that in a cage, even the most beautiful 
and best provisioned, plans for escape are not 
nurtured. 

Often some trouble of the parents, or moiu'n- 
ing following a death, is allowed to darken the 
lives of the children; it seems fitting that youth 
should be quiet in its black dress, and cease from 
play and laughter. But however human and ex- 
cusable this may be, it is neither kind nor just. 
Why not rather smile yourself through your tears, 
to chase the shadow from the hearts of your chil- 
dren? How do you expect them to love life and 
enter into it with strength and courage, if they 
find its morning dark and full of cares ? We need 
some happiness at the beginning of our days, if we 
are to have strength to keep on to the end. 

Then it is the part of both love and wisdom to 
make the home bright, to encourage the children 
in their quest for amusement, and if possible enter 
into it with them ourselves. This last is best of all. 
I know what deep delight a loving child may feel 
when he sees the look of care banished for awhile 
from the face of his father or his mother. We do 



FAIR WEATHER 195 

not realize the moral tonic there is for all of us 
in an hour of frolic together. 



I should never forgive myself were I to forget 
the family anniversaries. All days are alike^ say 
the wiseacres. That is the height of absurdity! 
All days are alike for a clock^ but not for the 
heart of a man. There are days that stand out 
against the background of life like mountain peaks 
against the sky. 

Of all sacred organisations the oldest and most 
worthy of veneration is the family; and this or- 
ganisation^ like all the rest, should have its feasts 
and fasts, its red- or black-letter days. The sor- 
rows of the past are sacred^ but their remembrance 
must not be allowed to colour the whole existence; 
the joys also should play their part^ and their 
commemoration gives youth a time for gaiety. 
The custom of celebrating birthdays is particu- 
larly happy^ and if there are grandparents in the 
family^ I would give the first thought to theirs. No 
doubt, with the charming coquetry of old age^ they 
will pretend to deprecate the attention^ alleging 
as a reason that it reminds them how long ago 



196 BY THE FIRESIDE 

they were born; but in reality no one is more sen- 
sible of expressions of remembrance and affection 
than they. And what is true of grandparents, is 
naturally true of parents also. 

It is very easy to lead the children to remember 
these holidays, and when the habit is formed it 
becomes hereditary in a family, at once a part and 
an expression of its normal life. 

Such days cast their bright shadows far before. 
Since a birthday is not a birthday without sur- 
prises, the household is divided into two camps, 
those who are in the secret and those who are not. 
The young people put their heads together, whis- 
per, and lay plots. A certain door is forbidden; 
a certain drawer, obstinately closed, has the air of 
a sphinx from whom no power can wrest its secret. 
Now there is no more absorbing pastime than 
having part in a plot for the pleasure of others; 
it brings with it all the exciting moments of a 
veritable conspiracy, without the onus of its dark 
secrets. For days it gives life a special zest, and 
it makes us better. To share a wicked secret acts 
like a poison; to share a good one, acts like an 
antiseptic. 

But here we are, on the threshold of the great 



FAIR WEATHER 197 

day! Prepared with care, the little celebration 
goes off like a beautiful piece of fireworks, unveil- 
ing mystery after mystery, and among them is one 
not prepared by the makers of the feast, which is 
yet the chief and most marvellous secret of all 
holidays. Suddenly everybody perceives that 
there is some strange, sweet spirit abroad in the 
home, transforming people and things, giving to 
all an unexpected value. These are the same 
faces, the same home, the same rooms, but they 
appear under a new light; " the roof grows glad 
and gay,'' and all who live beneath it are filled with 
happiness and good-will; a spontaneous move- 
ment carries all hearts toward mutual kindness. 
Old faults are forgotten in a smile, good intentions 
are born, lost courage is regained, and hope lights 
its torch once more. 

A particularly beautiful sight to me is play in 
a place designed for work. The books or tools are 
laid aside; effort has given place to relaxation. 
But this relaxation with its joyful noise, is nothing 
else than the glorification of toil, to which it lends 
its impulse. I love to see flowers on a study-table, 
and when the whole room is wreathed and gar- 
landed, and resounds with songs and laughter, I 



198 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tremble with a secret emotion that tells me some- 
thing fine and exalted is going on. 

We could not say of family holidays all the good 
they deserve. Evidently the young people should 
claim their share of them. If there are days the 
children celebrate in honour of their elders^ full of 
remembrance and stories of the past, in which the 
new-comers strengthen their union with the olden 
times, there are also days when the old should be 
merry in honour of the young. So the roles change, 
but the spirit remains the same. A festival in any 
one's honour makes him the centre of the family, 
makes him feel that the others take interest in 
him and love him much. King for a day, he sees 
the household gravitate around his crowned head; 
but this doesn't spoil him. To-morrow in his turn 
he gravitates around another centre, and so in time 
the family solidarity is revealed to him. All for 
one and one for all. 

These holidays may take what form you will, 
provided only you put your heart into them. Those 
who imagine them to be a privilege of certain 
classes of society, are greatly mistaken. Here, in 
two lines, is what it needs to carry out an ideal 
family holiday — first, to have done one's work; 



FAIR WEATHER 199 

second^ the possession of a little ingenuity, kind- 
ness, and enough good humour to season the whole. 
As none of these things has a market value, money 
is powerless in the matter of procuring them. 

If man knew how with little things he might 
please his neighbour, especially his young neigh- 
bour who has nature on his side, there would not be 
so many gloomy faces, cheerless homes and monot- 
onous lives; and joy with its purifying power 
would come back to us, drawn fresh from its ex- 
haustless springs. 



XV 



HOSPITALITY 

DO not be alarmed^ madam! the hospi- 
tality I eomisel you to practise does 
not entail domestic upheavals or fool- 
ish expenditures^ as you shall shortly see. Funda- 
mentally^ what I understood by hospitality is a 
certain very gracious form of altruism. This 
collective entity called the family^ niay be ani- 
mated by a selfish or a fraternal spirit. The 
selfish family lives behind bars^ cultivating its 
own particular interest at the expense of the in- 
terests of others; the stranger or the guest is 
looked upon as an enemy^ and if the gates are 
opened to him^ be sure that it is with the intent of 
rifling him if he is humble^ or obtaining favours if 
he is great. Or the home is perhaps the seat of 
a subtler egoism. There is no hostility to others, 
and nothing is sought from them; but there is 

200 



HOSPITALITY 201 

perpetual fear that the family privacy will be in- 
truded upon. This is a disposition that carries one 
far, at last reaching the point where everybody 
from without becomes a bore. Such a family is 
like those houses that would be attractive if their 
blinds were not always obstinately drawn, giving 
them an air of desertion. I consider a family ani- 
mated by this exclusive spirit a mischief-making 
institution, not only in society, but also among its 
own members. Its atmosphere becomes close and 
tainted, ripening a harvest of parasitic growths, 
and light and joy flee from it. This egoism be- 
lieves it is acting in the interest of the children, 
while in reality it is upon them that its blight de- 
scends. The climax is reached when an only child, 
shut in with a family thus on guard against the 
outside world, stifles or degenerates as a result of 
their mistaken aff*ection. 

The opposite of this unlovely spirit is the 
brotherliness that gives rise to hospitality. Here 
the home is not barred, but open; yet open not like 
a public square, but like a citadel, at once acces- 
sible and well guarded. There is need of a man's 
being sometimes at the disposal of his fellow-men, 
need of his opening his arms and his house and 



202 BY THE FIRESIDE 

saying to his guests : " You are welcome, make 
yourselves at home ! " Let him offer hospitality 
heartily, and so accept it from others ; if such hos- 
pitality were to perish from among us, with its 
generosity, its frankness and its warmth, a source 
of our highest good would be cut off. Let us re- 
ceive one another simply, cordially. There are 
always reasons for our coming together, for talk- 
ing of our own affairs and those of the public. To 
get out from our homes and come in contact with 
other families and other destinies, widens our 
views, gives us access to a common fund of moral 
resources, inspires us, and gives inspiration to 
others. Hospitality can perform marvels; it is 
one of the best aids in the education of our chil- 
dren. Whatever your social position, I would beg 
you, if you have children, to entertain other peo- 
ple's children. Man is a social being, especially 
in his youth; he likes to live in groups, and it is 
only in a society of young people, sounding a good 
part of the gamut of mind and temperament, that 
life unfolds normally. Character is formed by 
contact with others, sometimes by collision with 
them, and there are matters undreamt of by the re- 
cluse, that are capable of rousing the liveliest in- 



HOSPITALITY 203 

terest. To have a thoroughly good time in whole- 
souled fashion, with the zest added by originality 
of character, demands numbers. Who of us does 
not recall with deep satisfaction, certain young 
fellows in whose company he lived in the time long 
ago, whose cast of countenance and turn of mind 
alike were an inexhaustible source of surprises and 
merriment! But if these groups of youths are 
to be formed under favourable conditions, the 
parents must have a hand in it. The instinct of 
sociability abandoned to itself, may stray into 
chance friendships and bad company, while if it is 
suppressed, youth is robbed of its natural freshness 
and joy. There is therefore but one thing for us 
to do, help our children choose their companions, 
and when they are chosen, open our homes to them 
and make them welcome. You do not need to be 
rich to entertain young people, for they ask noth- 
ing but to laugh, and have within themselves ma- 
terial for all their gaiety; simplicity and absence 
of parade, far from being a hindrance to pleasure, 
are in its favour. I deplore the habit of expensive 
entertainments; they are necessarily limited to 
certain circles, and their spirit is spoiled by rivalry 
and envy. To be frankly joyous together and to 



204 BY THE FIRESIDE 

taste the sweets of good comradeship^ young people 
must meet often and with no reservations. 
* * * * * 

I come here to a matter which lies very close 
to my heart — ^the question of hospitality to young 
people separated from their families. It is an ex- 
cellent thing to entertain the children of those who 
entertain yours^ but to be satisfied with that would 
be unpardonable. You must remember the young 
people who for some of the reasons so numerous in 
the society of to-day, live in a sense by themselves. 
Nothing is sadder than to find yourself alone on a 
holiday, for instance, when everybody tries to be 
with those he loves; a man has to make desperate 
efforts to fight back the gloomy thoughts such iso- 
lation suggests. I know brave young fellows who 
have accomplished prodigies in this struggle. 
They have gone about decorating their little rooms 
with a right good-will, giving them character, 
peopling them with souvenirs, till they have almost 
made them into homes. When I cross one of these 
thresholds I feel inspired with respect for these 
lonely men, whose very habitation shows that they 
respect themselves. But at the same time I see 
what they lack; they lack friendship and affection. 



HOSPITALITY 205 

and the time may come when real suffering from 
this want becomes so great that they can no longer 
fight against it. Then dark thoughts assail them 
and trying temptations. They are beguiled into 
mistaking the false for the true^ into believing that 
what they lack is close at hand^ that they have only 
to reach out and grasp it. Often the best men suc- 
cumb at such moments^ for nothing is so demoral- 
ising as to feel one's self abandoned; but if in 
hope of escaping this suffering, one determines 
upon desperate steps, his whole life may feel the 
effects. I ask then that homes open their doors to 
these young men. Families are all too slow to rec- 
ognise the good it is here in their power to do, at 
the expense of a bit of kindness and discernment. 
The inmates of happy households, whose lives are 
filled with affection, who gather together daily in 
the delicious freedom of intimate talk, do not 
realise how hard it is to live alone. I refuse them 
the right to condemn the young whom loneliness 
and solitude lead astray; on the contrary I charge 
them with responsibility for the evil of which they 
complain, because they have done nothing to fore- 
stall it. 

Perhaps some one asks me how to set to work to 



206 BY THE FIRESIDE 

interest young people and divert them. I answer, 
it is rather a question of will than of ways. My 
youthful recollections are very clear on this sub- 
ject; I was always happiest where I found a little 
real kindness. The decorations, the table and the 
entertainment, all the material part, are much less 
important than one might suppose; what is neces- 
sary is to find yourself in an atmosphere that 
warms your heart, to know that you are welcome, 
to be made to feel somewhat at home. I remember 
a kind old couple who used to invite a number of 
us students to their home on Sundays. What they 
offered us was of patriarchal simplicity; but they 
were so cordial, laughed so heartily, inquired so 
kindly and with such paternal interest about the 
slightest things concerning our life, and put us so 
completely at ease, that we were perfectly happy 
with them. 

On the other hand I remember evenings passed 
with certain fatuous bourgeois who invited students 
to their homes with the idea of refining or reform- 
ing them, and I shall never forget the incredible 
degree of boredom their entertainments could reach. 
When we got outside, how unmistakably we gave 
vent to our pent-up feelings! there was but one 



HOSPITALITY 207 

sentiment, that we shouldn't be caught there again. 
So I say to all those who have understood me, 
don't trouble yourselves as to the means you shall 
employ for entertaining young people, or consider 
especially the fineness of your house or the menu 
of your dinner. Open your homes and your hearts, 
and simply be kind. The desire to be of use will 
make you inventive, and over and above this you 
will find coming to your aid the mysterious force 
that makes the colt frisk in the pastures, the birds 
chatter among the branches, and if only the oppor- 
tunity be given, of itself brings laughter and song 
to the lips of youth. 



XVI 

GOOD HUMOUR AT HOME 

HAVE you observed that good humour is 
frequently a commodity of export, and 
that when it has been distributed abroad, 
none is left for domestic consumption ? that there are 
people with a wide reputation for it, who carry re- 
lief and relaxation and cheerfulness wherever they 
go, who nevertheless fulfil no such mission in their 
homes ? From what does this state of affairs come ? 
No doubt from a variety of causes. 

In order to give forth their brightness, some 
people must be stimulated by new impressions, or 
skilfully drawn out. Their domestic surroundings 
do not produce the required effect, therefore they 
remain uncommunicative — a quite comprehensible 
state of affairs. 

Other people are easy and interesting talkers, 
but their anecdotes and stories are limited in num- 
ber, and their views of men and things are already 



GOOD HUMOUR AT HOME 209 

common property in the home. Perhaps they have 
been made to feel this; at all events^ they meditate 
in silence on the fact that no prophet is acceptable 
in his own house. 

A third variety is of superficial men who do not 
take the trouble to be agreeable in their homes^ but 
wait for a gallery and applause. Their case is 
a bad one. And then there is a common and 
lamentable type^ very easy to explain. Explana- 
tion is not excuse_, I am free to admit; yet it fre- 
quently puts a new face upon matters. 

Rather oftener than not^ Monsieur^ you come in 
from your business gloomy^ worried and forbid- 
ding; you are sparing of details as to what you 
have seen or heard; even in fine weather you bring 
home a rainy-day aspect. Justify yourself^ Mon- 
sieur! You drop your eyes and say nothing. I 
will speak for you. 

You come home tired and troubled^ with your 
stock of amiability and patience exhausted. So 
many demands have been made upon your good 
nature and your strength, that you have been 
emptied of them both; besides, the day may have 
brought troublesome developments and wearisome 
discussions^ that have put you for the time being 



210 BY THE FIRESIDE 

into a pretty bad mood. You hoped^ however^ to 
find peace at home^ a soothing and smiling welcome, 
an amiable wife and well-behaved children. But 
listen! in your absence, these people, too, have 
been expending themselves, and at the end of the 
day your wife finds that she has only her labour for 
her pains, while among the children things have 
happened that you must be told about. In short, 
there has been friction all around, and you have 
been awaited to set things right and establish peace 
and contentment in the family. You come home 
in hope of finding a little serenity, only to discover 
that you were expected to bring it. 

As at picnics, when the baskets are unpacked, 
some one asks : 

" Have you brought any salt? " 

" No, I thought you would have some. Did any- 
body remember the vinegar ? " 

" No; we counted on you for that.'* 

It's a pity, but there is nothing strange about 
it. I don't say that there is no cause for complaint, 
but we should be reasonable, make no accusations, 
search together for a remedy, and demand more of 
ourselves in the mattter than of anybody else-. 

This question of good humour in the family is 



GOOD HUMOUR AT HOME 211 

really very important, and invites us to many an 
examination of conscience; if we disregard it, we 
fall into recklessness, indifference, and laxity. 

You dust your furniture and burnish your silver ; 
believe me, it is as necessary to keep watch over 
your temper, to freshen it and brighten it. We are 
threatened without ceasing by a subtle evil like those 
that attack the leaves of the vine and wither and 
corrode them. Beware of bad temper, that mildew 
of the soul ; its nature is contagious. From parents 
it spreads to children and to all the household, and 
I even knew a parrot to contract the malady. It 
had a fund of amusing sayings, but at the end of 
two years in an ill-tempered family, it had for- 
gotten them all, and incessantly repeated, ** I'm in 
a perfect rage ! " 

Youth does not look at this matter of temper in 
the right light. It has less grave cares, fewer 
reasons for dark moments than its elders; but its 
lack of the habit of self-control leads it to attach 
to its sulks and bad temper too great an impor- 
tance. It wraps itself up in them as in a sort of 
royalty. " I'm in a bad humour to-day," say these 
young lords and ladies, and think it the final word. 
They ride their dark horses in defiance of humble 



212 BY THE FIRESIDE 

mortals ; nothing else so exalts them as bad temper. 
We should learn early to consider Such grandeur 
as very questionable^ if not ridiculous. The more 
we see the outcome of this unhappy disposition^ both 
in the home and outside^ the more disposed we are 
to bestow our homage elsewhere. 

What a beneficent thing an amiable and genial 
disposition is in this world of ours ! it is one of the 
most charming forms of kindness. Since the world 
is full of troubles great and small^ and man, our 
companion, has his heart full of them, let us mingle 
a few smiles with these shadows. Smiles lighten 
many a cross and smooth over many a difficulty ; in- 
deed, they change the aspect of all our relations 
with others. Good humour is a power ; it is a victory 
gained over brutal facts and over our own hearts; 
it transforms the world. It, too, is contagious, but 
with a happy sort of contagion; it is often recom- 
pensed by the awakening of its echo in others. It 
must be confessed that there are people who some- 
times make us lose it, but we should be sorry for 
them. How sad it must be to be cross-grained and 
peevish ! Look at the matter from this point, when 
you have to do with these unfortunates who might 
well ruffle the meekness of a lamb or provoke an 



GOOD HUMOUR AT HOME 213 

oyster to discussion. In the long run, few men can 
resist good humour ; they generally take the tone of 
him who accosts them, grumble with those who 
grumble, and smile at those who smile. 

One day I encountered two people searching for 
apartments on a certain boulevard. One greeted 
me with: ''Heavens! what disagreeable janitors 
there are in this quarter ! " " What kindly people 
one finds among these janitors, so courteous and at- 
tentive," said the other. Evidently these two per- 
sons had two fashions of approach. You don't meet 
about lodgings and apartments a greater abundance 
than elsewhere of stoic philosophers, inaccessible to 
ordinary emotions; the attitude of those you en- 
counter there, depends a good deal upon your own. 

Good humour works miracles daily. You say : 
" This person is insufferable, impossible ! " Good 
humour replies : " Why, no ! I find him very agree- 
able." 

I once knew an old man whom acute suffering 
had made a frightful pessimist, and given a mor- 
dant tongue. Nobody could get on with him ; every- 
one became infected with his temper and repaid 
him in kind, to his further exasperation. But at 
last somebody was found, not to vanquish him, for 



214 BY THE FIRESIDE 

that would have entailed curing his ills^ but to 
soothe and calm him. What it needed was a kind 
and smiling face and inexhaustible patience. The 
poor man was so grateful! I once heard him say 
this to his benefactress : " Oh^ thank you ! I had 
come to the conclusion that I was a wretch, but 
your kindness, which I so little deserve, proves to 
me that I am not that, only a poor unfortunate." 

In smoothing over angularities of character, in 
dealing with misunderstandings, in the process of 
education, in business, everywhere in short, a trifle 
of good humour goes a long way. I would put good 
humour in the ranks of the virtues, if I did not call 
it rather a bouquet of virtues; for there are days 
when to be good-humoured requires nothing less 
than entire trust in God and great love for man, 
with energy, promptitude, and a little fine malice to 
boot. 

I agree that good humour is less imposing than 
the cardinal virtues, and yet, what are they all to- 
gether unless touched by a ray of its beneficent 
light.'* Do you picture the saints as enveloped in 
gloom? If they were so, and had it depended upon 
me, they should never have been canonised. 

How smiles of kindness and contagious gaiety 



GOOD HUMOUR AT HOME 215 

lighten the burdens of men ! They hold the secrets 
of pardon and encouragement: they bridge space^ 
dissipate cold^ and make the desert bloom. How 
grateful I am for the relief they brings for the com- 
munication of their charm! And this charm is 
never-failing, good and gracious even in the hour 
of death. I love them for their share in immor- 
tality ! 



XVII 

OUR ACQUAINTANCES AND FRIENDS— 
OUR FRIENDS THE POOR 

OUR acquaintance is determined by family 
ties^ by business relations^ by similar- 
ities of taste. In general it is confined 
within certain limits^ and this is well^ for mingling 
with families whose condition is too far removed 
from ours^ has its inconveniences. To aspire to 
enter the doors of the rich^ the titled and the great, 
to be vain of their acquaintance and to desert our 
equals^ is a bad policy; in the end we are likely 
to repeat the experience of the iron pot and the 
earthen one journeying together^ or that of the poor 
night moths who singe their wings around gorgeous 
chandeliers. We are all equal before the law and 
before the bar of God; nevertheless^ it is the part 
of wisdom to associate chiefly with one's social 
equals. I say this in no perfunctory way ; I do not 
stand for conventional and iron-bound classifica- 

216 



OUR ACQUAINTANCES 217 

tions. Nothing is sillier than arrogance and the 
spirit of caste^ and it has always seemed to me par- 
ticularly shocking to see men admit or exclude one 
another according to the size of their fortunes, the 
antiquity of their titles, the exaltation of their rank, 
or any other superficial distinction. It is one thing 
to feel the spirit of brotherhood and benevolence 
toward classes and interests widely separated from 
our own, and quite another to choose our daily com- 
panions among them. To visit and entertain with 
good understanding, to live in happy relations with 
your friends, you must find them among men of 
your own kind. How many families have impov- 
erished themselves through aiming at a social rank 
they could not uphold. They have been thrown out 
of the safe and simple path through the desire to 
play, with too powerful friends, a role beyond their 
means. Their work neglected, their fortune com- 
promised, their children lost in pursuit of a mirage 
— these are the fruits of their unwise ambition. 

Familiar friends are among the best helps and 
greatest charms of life, yet there are men who avoid 
making them, to whom such a friend is an intruder, 
a suspect, a person who enters your home in search 
of his own profit; the fewer we have of them, the 



218 BY THE FIRESIDE 

better off we are. " Deliver me from my friends ! " 
is a common enough cry; "they destroy our tran- 
quillity^ bring distress upon the family^ set bad 
examples for the children^ empty our purses and 
retail our secrets broadcast. Friends ! — ^let us have 
none of them ! " 

It must be admitted that these plaints are some- 
times justified. There are scores of false friends, 
ill-advised, compromising, dangerous, bearers of 
more evil than good to us all, and it never surprises 
me when misfortunes are in question, to learn that 
they have come about through friends. I do not 
counsel you to make friends too readily, to make 
access to your home too easy. Confidence is good 
only on condition of having its limits. 

And yet I do not like the spectacle of an isolated 
home. Not to have friends, witnesses against a 
family as truly as against an individual, aad a 
family without friendly outside relations or sympa- 
thetic ties, could not be otherwise than sombre and 
joyless; for he who makes no friends in the world 
is seldom affectionate and companionable at home. 
He is a bear, and the joys of bears among them- 
selves do not inspire me with envy. Even suppose 
that an absolutely isolated family group is full of 



OUR ACQUAINTANCES 219 

cheer and happiness; it is^ for all that^ only a re- 
treat of egoism. 

■3€- -se- * -se- * 

But to the relations ordinarily cultivated for the 
pleasure of companionship^ conversation and the 
exchange of impressions and experiences^ I am here 
going to propose a complement too little known. I 
speak of our friends the poor. If the danger of 
friendships above our estate is largely courted, I 
see infinitely less cultivation of relations in the 
opposite direction; yet they ought to exist on a 
large scale, and they would, if we listened atten- 
tively enough to our hearts. Do not tell me I am 
pleading for relations as disproportionate as those 
I have just been discountenancing; that would be 
to mistake my intention. I will make it clear, and 
it needs no other defence. 

Every family having enough to live on, whether 
well off or in moderate circumstances, should try to 
establish personal relations with one or more fam- 
ilies in misfortmie. This is easier to do in the 
smaller centres, more difficult in the larger, but also 
more necessary. Our modern cities have undergone 
a certain topographical division; there are the 
quarters of the rich and the quarters of the poor. 



220 BY THE FIRESIDE 

In some streets it is rare to find a well-dressed per- 
son, while in others you encounter almost no poor 
people imless it be those whose poverty is question- 
able — the beggars. The distance between those 
who lack the necessities and those who are provided 
with them, is great and regrettable in itself, and it 
is accentuated and exaggerated by this local dis- 
tribution. It is for the interest of all to seek to 
lessen it. 

Surely efforts are not wanting in this direction, 
and our own country has made not a few; but what 
we have done keeps a too administrative stamp. 
Who says administration says mechanism; who says 
mechanism says routine and abuse. After running 
the gauntlet of regulations, functionaries and insti- 
tutions, the gifts you make the poor grow cold and 
are dissipated as heat is in circulating too long 
through complicated channels. So it happens that 
in our society of to-day, where more than enough 
is dispensed to nourish the submerged tenth of our 
brothers, men, women, and children live in privation 
and die of hunger. The poor have two enemies, the 
mercenary charged by the government with their 
relief, and the impostor of their own class : by cul- 
tivating direct relations with them you suppress the 



OUR ACQUAINTANCES 221 

intermediary and unmask the hypocrite. Nobody 
equals a functionary for bestowing upon an astute, 
dirty_, and vicious subject what he refuses to the 
worthy poor_, neat, and temperate, and little apt at 
making out a case; it is a scandalous fact, univer- 
sally understood. Inquiries followed out with a 
little care, will leave us no doubts about the true 
merit of those we aid. Then let us go to the poor 
ourselves, if we wish our intentions and our con- 
tributions to reach so far. 

Don't tell me it is impossible, that you haven't 
the time, that you don't know what to say to them. 
We lack time for the non-essential things, not for 
the essential, and this is one of the latter. As to 
the words, they arise from the circumstances and 
from the force of feeling; with the need, they will 
come to you. 

Poverty, worthy poverty, undeserving of the 
burdens it bears and the woes it endures, the poverty 
on which rests the weight of our social imperfec- 
tions, our vices and our crimes, the faults of your 
life and mine — ^this poverty is a vast unexplored 
continent, an unmapped and uncivilised land in the 
very midst of civilisation. In the fact that this 
world is unknown, unexplored, lies its menace and 



222 BY THE FIRESIDE 

our shame, for known to us and loved, it would lose 
at once its horror and its danger. 

But how go to work to become acquainted with 
the poor ? You must desire to do it, that is all. You 
succeed in gaining audience with ministers and 
heads of States or with the Pope, in having doors 
open to you through which one passes only under 
powerful protection. The poor have neither ante- 
chamber nor body-guard; at all hours of the day 
and night, poverty is at home — I go further, poverty 
is waiting to receive you. Follow to its home the 
first ragged child in the street, the first woman ill 
and suffering, especially if they have asked nothing 
of you, for it is well to be suspicious of beggars. 
In an hour, if you will, you may be at the heart of 
the situation. 

If this method out rims your courage, if you fear 
unforeseen developments, here is another way. 
Take a bit of lingerie or any article of dress to the 
merchant from whom you bought it, and ask him 
its history; or buy some cheap articles — aprons, 
handkerchiefs, or toys ; make your little inquisition 
as before, and follow this out until you arrive at the 
original worker. You will find women and young 
girls dying of hunger while they sew or design or 



OUR ACQUAINTANCES 223 

fashion these things from morning till night. Here, 
too, there will be a reception awaiting you. 

Once received by them, admitted to their homes, 
study what is under your eyes. Return from time 
to time, follow the leading you have found, try to 
get to the bottom. When you do not know them, 
the poor all seem alike; you must take the pains to 
study them closely. You will investigate, then ; you 
will come to know their past, their struggles, their 
bereavements, all their history, and behind the poor, 
you will find the man or the woman, a man like your- 
self, having a still greater need of tenderness than 
of bread. And once arrived at this point, you will 
not stop, for you will find yourself on the threshold 
of a new world. To see the poor and unfortunate 
live, is a perpetual education. The least details are 
interesting, the table, the dress, the family rela- 
tions. You will make strange discoveries in regard 
to the education of children, the fate of the old, 
the martyrdom of women. No book, no painting 
can disclose to you what you will see there with 
your own eyes. Then go to these people, and, fur- 
thermore, play your part among them. You will 
find how many things you may undertake for these 
brothers, and that it is much better to know them 



224 BY THE FIRESIDE 

yourself than to address your liberality to them 
anonymously^ and you will often be surprised to 
find how little it takes to give them a bit of joy. 
Here is one story among a thousand : 

A poor old man was dying in one of the suburbs 
of the city. Near him lived a young lady whom he 
had often seen pass as he sat weak and helpless by 
his door. She had a sweet and smiling f ace^ and she 
always greeted the old man ; sometimes she sent him 
a dainty dish, and once she gave him a bouquet of 
flowers. So he had dedicated a veritable shrine to 
her in his heart. When death was near, he asked 
for her. She came, and wanted to know what she 
could do for him. " Only sit down beside me a little 
while," he said; *' it does me so much good to look 
at you. Don't pity me or be sad; smile as you al- 
ways do. I think it will help me to go more easily." 

•X- * -X- "X- * 

But we must not speak merely of what we may 
do for the poor, but also of what they may do for 
us : seeing their lites, we may learn to live in con- 
tentment. It is our custom to plan far ahead, and to 
people the future with hopes and fears; sitting 
down beside those who have no future, and who 
barely live from day to day, is a great lesson for 



OUR ACQUAINTANCES 225 

us. We ask ourselves: What shall we eat? what 
shall we drink? what careers will be open to our 
sons ? what dowry can we give our daughters ? that 
our income increases or diminishes touches us 
deeply. They have no income^ they give nothing to 
son or daughter^ and yet they must live. The days 
when they do not suffer from cold or hunger, they 
are content for themselves and for their children. 
Dare you complain after seeing this ? 

I would have you seek their company when life 
seems to you not worth living. You pass through 
periods when your worldly relations become insup- 
portable; such an impression of emptiness and 
worthlessness comes from them, that your soul is 
filled with dismay. In these hours, make your way 
to some home where the passions and infatuations 
of your world are unknown. If death has robbed 
you, go find those bereft like yourself ; if a widow, 
search out other widows; if a mother weeping for 
a child, go to these mothers who weep. They will 
say to you simple words which go straight to the 
heart, and you will come away with clearer sight 
into your own destiny. God has given a power of 
consolation to communion of suffering. 

Contact with those to whom life has been par- 



226 BY THE FIRESIDE 

ticularly hard^ is useful in other ways; in truth^ it 
is indispensable. In avoiding it^ you deprive your- 
self of the best means of escaping disabilities in- 
herent in the most comfortable social positions. We 
are all exposed to the danger of becoming the slaves 
of our surroundings^ of burying ourselves gradually 
under wonted habits and meaningless customs. 
Every excursion into a different region of life, pro- 
duces the effect of a change of air. Most people 
imagine that the poor wallow in ignorance^ brutish- 
ness^ and apathy. I do not deny that in the lowest 
degrees of misery^ man is routed by suffering too 
constant and too cruel^ and when vice is added to 
poverty^ the spectacle becomes hideous. Yet these 
cases are exceptional. Very much oftener than we 
think^ the poor are educated by suffering; they 
have not only suffered^ they have also reflected. 
Gain their confidence by frequent intercourse with 
them^ and they will make you those intimate confes- 
sions we reserve for tried friends. When that day 
€omes^ you will be greatly surprised to find what 
treasures may be hidden in the souls of the needy. 
If the poor have need of us^ we have even greater 
need of them. 

That is a pitiful family life in which the wants 



OUR ACQUAINTANCES 227 

of the poor have no place. There must be an ex- 
traordinary degree of hard-heartedness in caring 
for our own^ and still not letting even this attach- 
ment lead us into a larger sympathy. If your own 
little children^ in sickness and in health_, do not make 
you think of little ones who are homeless, and plead 
their cause with you^ I can only draw the conclusion 
that your father and mother love is not very ideal. 

Our homes must not be forgetful, disdainful^ and 
cold^ but hospitable^ friendly^ and genial. Let re- 
membrance of others always have its place at our 
hearth^ and outside suifering find its echo there^ and 
let us see that the ways leading from our homes to 
the homes of the poor are never grass-grown_, for 
they are among those roads of earth that we may 
have the best hope of finding paths of peace. 



XVIII 
WHEN THE BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 

HITHERTO we have spoken of the family 
as a snugly sheltered brood; but we know 
that when their wings are grown^ young 
birds leave the nest. It could not well be other- 
wise. Wings are not made for keeping fast closed 
or confining to one familiar tree^ but for spreading, 
for trusting to the air, for soaring into other skies. 
In bird life, separation seems generally a very sim- 
ple matter. When the fancy for flying does not 
sufficiently possess the nestlings, the old birds drive 
them out with bill and claw, refuse to bring them 
food, or simply desert them without further cere- 
mony; after that the young birds must get on as 
best they can. As for the old, they mate again, 
build new nests, and raise new broods, forgetful of 
the past. 

In man's life it is otherwise. A family is a 
family for life, but it cannot remain always united. 

22S 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 229 

In olden times^ especially centuries ago^ it resisted 
the changes of the years; for a family to remain 
one household was the rule. But the modern world 
with its practical demands and its restlessness^ con- 
spires against us. It takes away our children. 
By the force of circumstances they leave the home, 
one by one, at first provisionally, then definitely. 
The hearth is depopulated, the table stripped; soli- 
tude arrives. We think ourselves very fortunate 
to be able to keep one child, and that is by no means 
always possible. 

This is one of the most melancholy sides of man's 
destiny. It is natural to protest against it, as we 
do; to say that we will never leave one another, 
always remain together. But whither would this 
spirit lead us? To stagnation and sterility: the 
family would lose its reason for being, and educa- 
tion would fail to produce its fruit. There is a 
time for everything, a time for absorbing the spirit 
of domestic traditions, a time for going forth into 
the world with what one has acquired in the home. 
We train our children for life among men; if they 
are to take and hold such a place, their horizon 
must grow continually wider. 

***** 



230 BY THE FIRESIDE 

When one considers the pain it gives us to quit 
the nest^ those parents would seem to have reason 
on their side who accustom their children to this 
separation from their earliest years. In fashion- 
ing an independent character^ making a citizen of 
the worlds must it not be well to avoid forming- 
these tender home-ties which trammel freedom of 
movement? If parents were wise and clear- 
sighted^ would they not begin by putting their chil- 
dren out to nurse_, and after that place them in 
boarding-schools? Brought up in this way, they 
would not regret the mother's wing and its tender- 
ness, never having known them. 

At first sight, this appears entirely logical, but 
there is never a better occasion for assuring our- 
selves that man does not live by logic. And in the 
first place, among the things we most regret 
throughout our lives, there are some that we have 
never possessed. During that period of misery 
known as the Thirty Years' War, a German boy of 
eighteen is said to have died with this plaint on 
his lips: "I do not regret life, I only regret never 
having tasted bread"; and we all know the griev- 
ance of the Man in the Iron Mask: "I never felt a 
mother's kiss." We regret the blessings denied us, 
when they are essential things, things correspond- 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 231 

ing to some profound need of our being. The sat- 
isfaction of superficial needs we may forego^ in- 
deed^ it is often well to have missed it; but family- 
life and the beneficent warmth of a hearth^ are 
things essential; we have real need of growing up 
under the eyes and in the arms of our fathers and 
mothers. Chickens may be raised in an incubator, 
though if these unfortimate little industrial prod- 
ucts could express what they vaguely feel, they 
would be the first to protest against the method; 
but there is no artificial means in existence that 
can replace the home in the bringing up of a child ; 
the most ingeniously contrived substitutes for it 
are only miserable makeshifts. Oh, how they are 
to be pitied, the little children who grow up outside 
of the home nest, robbed of their birthright of ten- 
derness; children lodged, fed, dressed, exercised, 
and, if you will, amused, by a corporation! All 
their lives their hearts will sufi*er from this cold- 
ness, and they will never have a livelier sense of 
anything than that of regret for the, love they have 
missed. 

And do not suppose that these children grow into 
the men who go out into the great world with the 
most enthusiasm, who have in them the material of 
which fighters and originators and pioneers are 



BY THE FIRESIDE 

made. According to a law applicable in both the 
physical and the moral miiverse, the expansive 
power of a force is measured by its concentration; 
the more steam is condensed, the more elastic it be- 
comes; the greater the tension of the bow, the 
longer the flight of the arrow. The peoples who 
have a highly developed national sense and a pow- 
erful civic life, are at the same time those who push 
out most widely, colonising even to the ends of the 
earth, and united families, where the afi'ections are 
intense, the hearth warm and vivifying, are those 
whence virile characters come. Round these 
hearths they are nourished by bread so strengthen- 
ing that when they go out among men, they are 
equipped to go far. The spirit of the home is 
upon them, they carry it with them, they shed it 
abroad. 

Then to weaken the family sentiment to the end 
of augmenting individual initiative, is equivalent to 
uncoiling a spring in hope of getting greater re- 
silience. 



The family is needed, the home nest, with all its 
brooding power. But if a child ought to grow up in 
his home, when he is grown, a time comes to leave it. 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 233 

The breaking up of families occurs under vari- 
ous conditions, and the hour of departure sounds 
earlier for our sons than for our daughters. Some- 
times the separation comes about as a regrettable 
accident, or even a rupture. This is a very painful 
side of the matter, at which we will look for a mo- 
ment. In the trees there are impatient and turbu- 
lent birdlings, who take flight before their wings 
are strong, at the risk of perishing from hunger 
or cold, or being eaten by cats. There are black 
sheep in families, who do essentially the same 
thing. The home restrictions gall them; the quiet, 
regular life, a little austere, weighs upon them; 
"mamma is too observant, papa too severe; one 
can't turn around. It begins to be insufferable; 
we are no longer children, you know." And after 
troubling the family peace, some fine day they go 
off* to join the army or the navy, or simply abroad 
in the world, and do not always remember to send 
back news of themselves. These wanderers are a 
source of grief to parents which 6ne must have 
felt to know its depth; and by some strange anom- 
aly it is generally the favourite child who gives the 
blow, so that he often leaves broken hearts behind. 
The black sheep may be divided into two classes. 



234 BY THE FIRESIDE 

To one of them belong those who detach them- 
selves from the family as a dead leaf falls from 
a tree. These are the waifs and strays^ the prodi- 
gals who never return^ or^ if they do^ return like 
flotsam and remain to be only a burden or a dis- 
grace. Why say more about them? Is it not sad 
enough to have them pointed out_, to be reminded 
that they exist^ bringing gray hairs and heart-break 
to their unfortunate parents? Let us stop on the 
verge of this abyss. 

In the other class belong those to whom the 
separation from home brings reflections and whom 
experience moulds into shape. The family was not 
able to fashion the rude though generous stuff of 
which they are made_, and life takes up the task. 
In time they return to the roof-tree^ but when they 
go^ who knows whether they will ever be seen 
again? Anguish gets the better of hope, and they 
are followed with the same longings as though they 
were lost forever. 

It is sometimes with like anguish that we watch 
the development of children who as they grow into 
manhood separate themselves from us in their spir- 
itual point of view. There is great satisfaction in 
seeing our children espouse our ideas and beliefs. 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 235 

even our tastes_, and when they apply the fagot to 
what has been sacred to us, or take up arms in the 
ranks of our adversaries, it is a great affliction. 
But here, also, it behooves us to be reasonable. No 
one can justly demand that his children share all 
his opinions, and march under his religious or 
political banner. We must accept the truth that 
nobody is lost from not being of our church or our 
party, and if the fact that one of our own number 
professes beliefs repugnant to us could render us 
a little more humane toward our adversaries, there 
would be more reason to be glad than sorry over 
his defection. 

Among these painful separations, we must speak 
of the heartrendings produced in a family by an 
exceptional and irresistible vocation, luring a man 
into untried ways. The prudence of parents 
dreams of careers for their children in which the 
unknown holds the least possible place, and the 
ordinary movement of the world is such that the 
very great majority of men follow beaten paths. 
But there remains the sparse and indispensable 
race of independents, pioneers, innovators, reform- 
ers, in the domain of ideas as well as in that of 
deeds. These men, absolutely individual, do not 



236 BY THE FIRESmE 

even resemble one another, and are oftenest 
strangers among their own kin; something for- 
eign and indefinable dwells within them. As they 
mature and their bent shows itself, there is surprise 
in the family, astonishment, sometimes consterna- 
tion. When a duck's egg is slipped into the nest 
of a setting-hen, an agitated life is in preparation 
for her; the duckling will give her more trouble 
than all the chickens together, and the day when 
he first sees water and launches out, happy to have 
found his element, his joy will be equalled only by 
his mother's despair. 

It is the lot of the chosen, of the great among 
men, to bring much suffering to those who love 
them, and to suflTer much themselves. Misjudged, 
rejected by their own, shut out from the environ- 
ment whence they sprang and to which their great 
affectionate hearts are attached, they are looked 
upon as fools, traitors, or impostors, and while 
yet alive are wept over as though dead. Often 
they succumb under their task, without their con- 
temporaries perceiving what is due them. Pos- 
terity rehabilitates them, and weaves them tardy 
laurels, but with what sadness must they have 
found that while the foxes have holes and the birds 



i 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 237 

of the air nests^ there was no place for them to lay 
their heads! If it is the common law of life to 
quit the protective roof where childhood has passed, 
to see the circle of beloved faces dispersed that 
seemed to be grouped together forever, this law 
works out most grievously for those to whom 
humanity owes its greatest conquests and its most 
precious possessions; for to them the mandate of 
old is once more spoken: *'Get thee out of thy coun- 
try, and from thy kindred . . . unto a land 
that I will show thee." 

In ordinary life, the need of parting with one's 
children is earlier manifest and more imperious 
among the well-to-do classes, the sons of peasants 
and labourers being able to remain at home longer 
than boys whose careers demand years of technical 
study. The necessity of putting their sons in spe- 
cial schools, imposes upon parents, along with all 
sorts of other sacrifices, this hardest one of all — 
that of parting with them; but it seems to me that 
those parents do themselves needless violence in 
this matter who send their children away when they 
are eight or ten years old. Poor little fellows! 
At such an age the best institution, the most suc- 
cessful "home school," replaces but imperfectly the 



238 BY THE FIRESIDE 

true family life. And how is it when the boy is 
at one of the great boarding-schools? Among the 
most pitiful of beings I put the little ten-year-old 
submitted to the regime of dormitory^ refectory, 
and exercise in file. Poor little puppet^ stifled 
with rules and girt in a uniform^ with your too ten- 
der hearty and your head too soon shorn of its curls, 
imprisoned behind walls with your need of air and 
freedom! The mere thought of the blind strug- 
gles that have gone on behind the buttons of rigid 
jackets and under the unyielding discipline of the 
kepi, is insupportable! 

For the tortures it has inflicted, for the tears it 
has made flow from the eyes of so many children, 
for the deformities and faults it has communicated 
through its atmosphere unhealthy for the body and 
fatal for the soul, I hate the ordinary boarding- 
school. In spite of its cheapness, it is always too 
dear. If it were free, I would have none of it; 
if it w^ere obligatory, I should preach revolt. 



* 



Separation from the home, a bad thing when it 
comes too early, becomes salutary at the proper 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 239 

time. All parents have experienced the fact that 
their children^ boys and girls alike^ pass through 
particularly difficult periods^ when their conduct is 
surprising and painful and the home relations be- 
come trying. The parents complain that the chil- 
dren are ungrateful^ contrary^ wanting in consid- 
eration and respect; that they consider themselves 
the most important members of the family; that 
everything must revolve around them^ and yet noth- 
ing satisfies them; they do not seem to appreciate 
their comforts, the affection of their parents, or the 
society of their brothers and sisters. 

Then the moment has come to part with them. 
Sometimes, however, circumstances are such that 
we cannot. In that case, let us find as many op- 
portunities as possible for their diversion apart 
from ourselves and away from their usual sur- 
roundings. Nothing destroys one's freshness like 
going round and round in the same circle, seeing 
always the same faces, and hearing over and again 
the expression of the same ideas. If separation is 
impracticable, let us at least give them all the 
change we can. 

But where such reasons as these do not exist, 
there are others that favour this separation. The 



^40 BY THE FIRESIDE 

atmosphere of family life does not suffice indefi- 
nitely for human development, it could not possibly 
take the place of all things else; there is perforce 
a certain limitation about it. To know only one's 
own family, his home, and his town, is a mark of 
inferiority. 

The separation, I know, is hard for the parents, 
hard not only in itself but also in what it suggests. 
The first departure is the beginning of the end; 
all too easily do we realise that. The distance is 
going to widen between those whom we love so and 
ourselves, the dear life of the home nest is going 
to become a thing of the past. The hesitation over 
the first step is natural, but, in spite of what it 
costs us, we must resolve upon making it. If we 
really love our children, we consent to the separa- 
tion because it is for their good. 

They need a broader outlook, and nothing else 
has the same educative force as a change of sur- 
roundings: it is a sort of moral and intellectual 
cure. Moreover, something very remarkable, and 
confirmed daily by our personal experience — dis- 
tance is a sifter and refiner of sentiment. To 
come near in spirit to those who live with us, and 
from whom certain daily trivialities and disagree- 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 241 

ments divide us^ it sometimes suffices simply to sepa- 
rate ourselves from them. 



The travellers have departed^ their place in the 
home is empty^ their covers lacking at the table; 
where there was noise and stir^ all is now sadly 
quiet, and furtive tears fall. How well we under- 
stand and how we sympathise! Yet deep as our 
interest is, let us turn our eyes from the home, and 
follow the children. They generally set out with 
a light heart, except perhaps that at the last mo- 
ment the emotion of their parents becomes con-^ 
tagious. To travel, to try their wings, to see what 
there is out in the world, is quite to their taste. 
The fluttering tenderness of the parents has been 
surprised, pained, at this light-hearted departure. 

But the days go by, and now the young novices 
are facing the new situation. Sometimes the dif- 
ference is very sensible, the acclimatisation slow 
and laborious, there are new faces, habits into 
which one does not fall instinctively, everywhere 
the unaccustomed strikes the eyes. This is ex- 
patriation, and when the first letter comes from 



242 BY THE FIRESIDE 

home, it is read in hiding, so that the tears may 
fall unrestrained. ; 

Then a well-known phenomenon occurs. In 
spite of stout hearts and good courage, in spite of 
the attractions of the new abode, the kindly sym- 
pathy of the adopted home, of the teachers and the 
new companions, a sort of dark mist envelops every- 
thing, to the view of the heart rather than that of 
the eyes; and this is called homesickness. To 
those suffering from it the sun seems less bright 
than in their native air, while the home-country ap- 
pears to their remembrance wreathed in an aureole. 
They dream of it, and night or day it is a beautiful 
and smiling land, peopled with amiable beings, and 
most so of all, papa, mamma, and the brothers and 
sisters. At all hours the dear ones are followed in 
imagination as they go about their ordinary occu- 
pations. How much better they will be loved 
when we are all together again! But that time 
is so far away! Will it ever come.^ 

Meanwhile this suffering does us good, moulds 
our character, makes us appreciate those we have 
left behind. And to prove to them that we love 
them, and to have the witness of it in ourselves, we 
put the more ardour into our study. We must pass 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 243 

through this beneficent pain if we would become 
men. 

^ -Jf * * * 

So long as one is a student, he does not generally 
go very far from home; but as the years pass, ex- 
cursions into the world become more extended, and 
reasons for leaving the home multiply. After a trip 
in Europe, perhaps comes a journey to lands more 
remote ; there is one's living to make, his position to 
establish, his talent to develop, and the world's work 
to follow; and then there is marriage. It is less 
and less possible for a man to live where he was 
born, and continue in peace the trade of his fathers. 
And the material existence is not the only motive 
that prompts us to leave our homes and sometimes 
our country; in our day, spiritual interests as well 
as material prosperity demand of nations that they 
make their influence felt afar, inform themselves of 
one another, and create widespread relations. The 
family should cultivate and encourage in its young 
people the spirit of enterprise and the taste for 
hardy vocations. The ideal of the tread-mill 
should be replaced by an independent ideal of life, 
the ideal of the pioneer and of his followers. Young 
men often choose too readily the beaten tracks that 



244 BY THE FIRESIDE 

lead to the unvarying round of old routines, and 
fight each other for every inch of ground. The sum 
of human happiness is not added to in this fashion ; 
on the contrary, in repeating itself life loses its in- 
terest. Ideas go round in their old circles ; neither 
the literary nor the scientific equipment is often 
enough renewed ; a few insoluble questions and old 
political, religious, or social quarrels, absorb the 
public attention, and we are ignorant of the great 
movements going on in the world. A thorough ven- 
tilation is indispensable. I appeal for a family 
life strong, concentrated, laborious and simple, but 
at the same time open to the air of the outside world, 
provocative of the heroic virtues, in a word, a con- 
quering life. 

^ * * ^ ^ 

We are concerned here principally with young 
men, and most of what we have said is applicable 
to them alone; but if our daughters stay with us 
a little longer than our sons, the normal law of 
life demands that they, too, leave us, in their turn. 
If we wish them to have homes of their own — and 
who of us does not wish it? — ^we must resign our- 
selves to this necessity; a new family can hardly 
be established without paying a debt to separa- 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 245 

tion. Ordinarily^ to be sure^ and it is one of our 
consolations^ our daughters stay relatively near us. 
The new household is established^ if not in the 
same city, at least in the same country. And yet, 
though the woman less often than the man is called 
to make her home in distant lands, she should learn 
to face the idea of it without too much dread. In 
all social conditions, her role of helper and com- 
panion demands first of all that she associate her- 
self with the changing fortunes of her husband, 
and rise to the exigencies of circumstances. It is 
a splendid resource for a nation to have nourished 
in her bosom women who do not ask for the shel- 
tered happiness of those localities where all the 
comforts are at hand. What would become of our 
inventors, our scholars, our explorers and colonists, 
in their hard lives of prolific labour, if there were 
among us no young women capable of living far 
from shops, the diversions of mundane life, the 
monotonous round of well-to-do existence? We 
need feminine courage on a level with all the mas- 
culine vocations. Happiness does not lose by it; 
on the contrary, it gains. Unquestionably in going 
far away from her family and from the life to 
which she is accustomed, there is great privation 



246 BY THE FIRESIDE 

for a young woman. It is not only civilisation 
that she renounces, with its comforts that make 
almost part of our daily bread; it is her mother's 
counsel, the sure refuge of her home, the moral 
resource in times of difficulty. But these sacrifices 
have their compensations. A life that demands 
energy and decision, has hidden within it satisfac- 
tions unknown to a gentle and peaceful existence 
led in surroundings of ease. Everything that de- 
velops our wills, increases also our faculty for 
happiness. Among those who know love in its 
finest form, are the men and women who pass their 
lives in foreign lands, civilising savage nations, 
razing forests, ministering to the sick, teaching the 
ignorant. Such a life has joys that the man of our 
typical society, classified and encased, is not 
acquainted with and would not be able to compre- 
hend. Fundamentally, between the two conditions 
there is all the difference between the bird in the 
cage and the free denizen of space. 

***** 

And now that we have spoken of separation 
under all these forms, and of the dispersion of 
the family, let us raise our hearts to a higher level. 



11 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 247 

one which knows neither separation nor death. 
There is a bond that distance cannot weaken, nor 
any absence destroy, the bond of souls, and the 
more inexorably life separates us, the stronger and 
purer this bond grows; Separation becomes a 
school where we learn to place our affections above 
things visible and tangible. " The absent are 
always in the wrong," is an infamous proverb, 
true only for craven hearts and coward wills. I 
call to witness the sentiments that are most human 
and most evident in ourselves and in others. Who, 
pray, hold the most enviable places in every 
family? Its absent members. The farther away 
they are, the more they are loved. And with these 
absent ones themselves, what corner of the heart 
is most luminous and dearest? is it not the corner 
of remembrance? The memory of home and of 
the home-land, like a soft ray of light on our path- 
way, cheers and sustains us. It is a talisman, a 
jewel we would not barter away. 

A sailor is on guard at night in the midst of 
a tumultuous sea. It is his watch. The wind cuts 
his face and the passing waves dash their salt 
spray over him. There is not a star out; nothing 
anywhere but a boiuidless desert of water and dark- 



248 BY THE FIRESIDE 

ness, but in the sailor's heart it is day. He is 
dreaming of a land far off^ of the cottage that is 
his home, where in the lamplight and the quiet his 
mother sits sewing, and praying for him. 

And He whom she invokes is near her boy as He 
is near to her. In Him is the balm for the pains 
of absence; to bear them without terror, one must 
know how to find refuge in God. In our troubled 
solicitude, it sometimes seems to us that those who 
have left us are less guarded; since our eyes no 
longer watch their steps, we picture them sur- 
rounded by snares and threatened with dangers. 
What a magnifying of our own power! what want 
of confidence in God's ! Is there no unknown 
where we are, no peril .^^ are we masters of the fate 
of those about us? No; another power than ours 
governs life, and it is the same power everywhere, 
where our loved ones go, as also where we stay. Let 
us trust them to its care. 

One of the sweetest and most consoling of 
words, in spite of its deep sadness, is adieu! To 
speak it without too much bitterness, let us learn 
to say it in all sincerity and all the breadth of its 
significance. Adieu ! — that means : " I must leave 
you, and the thought of it saddens me; but I 



BIRDS LEAVE THE NEST 249 

entrust you to God, and in that is my assurance." 
I wish all those who must meet the trial of separa- 
tion, might be able to say in this sense. Adieu! Is 
it not at the same time the best way of saying to 
one another, Au re voir? 



XIX 

WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN TO THE NEST 

THE sadness of departure has for com- 
pensation the joy of return. When in 
autumn the birds of passage leave my 
country, a kind of melancholy takes possession of 
the spirit. The leaves are falling, too; Nature is 
preparing for her long sleep; the waning hours 
suggest decline and things that have an end. 

But in the spring, what joy to hear of the first 
stork on a roof, what glad surprise to see the first 
swallow in the April sky! It is a carnival. It 
doesn't matter that we have seen these same things 
over and over; it is impossible to see them now 
without emotion. The peach-trees don their robes 
of rose, the hawthorn spreads out its snowy gauze, 
the Easter daisies glitter like stars in the spring- 
ing green of the meadows, and the heart of man 
comes into tune: all these things speak to him of 

250 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 251 

reunion, of renewal_, of hope. I prefer this alter- 
nation to an endless springtime: the picture of life 
needs light and shade. 

But, alas! at the very beginning we encoimter 
a black shadow. Can we speak of days of renewal 
without thinking of friends who have left us never 
to return? Let us give the first place to them, 
drop a tear for those who sleep in stranger soil, 
at the bottom of the sea, in the trenches of battle- 
fields, or who came back to us in the sombre trap- 
pings of death. They have died far away from their 
loved ones, without the affectionate care that eases 
the dark passage, and only a letter or a laconic 
despatch has come to tell the tale. The home puts 
on mourning. Then we receive their effects, un- 
pack amid tears their clothing, their books, their 
little keepsakes, fragile mementoes, yet enduring 
longer than they; and our hearts contract at the 
thought that never again shall we see them in this 
world. Oh, how sad these deaths are, far from 
the home, leaving us not even the satisfaction of 
planting a flower on a grave! Poor fathers, poor 
mothers, bowed down by such a grief, every man 
of feeling has tears for you, and, whoever knows 
how to call on God, remembers you in his prayers. 



252 BY THE FIRESIDE 

Others return, but like wounded birds that find 
their way back to the nest on broken wings. The 
stress and fatigue of long voyages, the deadly cli- 
mate of the tropics, privations and suffering and 
the enemy's balls, have shattered their strength. 
They go away full of life and health, and come 
back invalided, old before the time. It is a 
chance if we recognise them, so greatly are they 
changed. We fear to look at them, and when we 
welcome them with kisses, we turn away to hide 
our grief. And then we watch over them, coax 
them back to life, these dear ones doubly dear for 
what they have endured. Sometimes the home does 
miracles, brings about a veritable resurrection*; but 
often it is too late, the evil has done its work, they 
have only come to die in our arms. 

Why talk about these heart-rending things? 
Because if this life is a great combat, it is not right 
to forget the dead and wounded; it is a shameful 
ingratitude to talk of the victors and be silent 
about the vanquished ; to celebrate the victories and 
erase the defeats from the book of memory. 
Honour first to those who fall, to those who never 
return from battle, to all the young lives sacrificed 
to early death. I would sooner lie down in the 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 253 

tomb with these dear children, than refrain from 
speaking their names or let their faces fade out 
of my memory. Speak of them! Talk of their 
misfortunes ! Do not fear that it will discourage 
others. There is a generous courage that is drawn 
toward the spot where lives have been laid down, 
a temper of mind to which the grandeur of a cause 
increases with each hero who falls for it. 

No triumph of Science or Religion has won for 
either so many devoted pioneers as have her 
martyrs. All humanity's roads are planted with 
crosses, where those valiant ones have fallen who 
blazed the way; there great calls are heard, and 
there youth with its enthusiasm and ideals, finds its 
purest inspirations. 

* * * * * 

But after paying our tributes of regret, and 
weeping with those who weep, it is meet to rejoice 
with those who rejoice. We must take life as it 
is, give it all the sentiments it demands. To forget 
the living and thtink only of the dead, were quite 
as unjust and inhuman as to forget the dead and 
think only of the living. They all belong to the 
family, the family loves them all. 



254 BY THE FIRESIDE 

Among those who come back to the nest^ I think 
first of the youngest^ the students, boys and girls, 
returning for vacation. They have counted the 
days, you may be sure of that! One of their joys 
in these last weeks of absence has been to strike 
off on the calendar the dates as they went by. It 
is a means of deceiving one's impatience. Soldiers, 
too, have this habit, and toward the end of their 
service they chalk on all the walls: Twenty days 
more! Fifteen days more! 

All their thought now is of us — the dear chil- 
dren! they are going home! Their heart is no 
longer where they are, it has taken flight to more 
familiar haunts. For you who have experienced 
this, no description is necessary. 

I shall always remember my first return to my 
native village, after a year in Paris. All the other 
years of my life together have not seemed to me 
so long as that one. I had despaired of ever 
seeing the end of it, but the end came at last. 
After a night on the train, I found myself, on a 
sunny August morning, in Alsace, on the highway 
running through the Saverne pass. Leaving on my 
left the walls of old Phalsbourg, I soon plunged 
into the superb forest. It was about eight o'clock 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 255 

in the morning. The night before^ at the same 
hour^ I was packing my grip at the Kulm pension 
in the rue de la Tour-d'Auvergne^ with piles of 
dictionaries and grammars and hmidreds of houses 
and walls between me and the open country. What 
a change from one day to the next! 

Here was the forest, bathed in dew and fragrant 
with vitalising odours, the forest with all is mem- 
ories. Blackbirds were singing, insects humming^ 
the ancient oaks and pointed firs seemed to wel- 
come me! I had found myself^ I recognised my- 
self once more! In the earlier days, when I 
strayed too late in pathways far from home^ with 
a bad conscience for having broken the paternal 
leave^ the good old trees, like friendly sages, sig- 
nalled me with their waving boughs, disapprov- 
ing my foolish escapades and my rashness. To- 
day they seemed to me to open wide their arms 
and say: "Good morning, little chap, at last you 
are back again ! " I trembled with happiness, I 
leaped for joy, treading with swift and light feet 
the forest path at whose end I was to see among 
the red roofs set in green the bell tower of the 
village church. Suddenly in this solitude I heard 
a voice. Fifty feet behind me two peasants had 



256 BY THE FIRESIDE 

come out of the wood^ and were talking together as 
. they walked along. Their voices, deep and 
resonant, echoed among the trees, and I heard dis- 
tinctly the patois of the country; a poor and rustic 
tongue, but in it all my childhood was singing! a 
plain and simple speech, but beside it every other 
language has always had the effect upon me of 
something borrowed and acquired. 

What music it was to my ears so long denied 
the sound of it ! More than thirty years have flown 
by since that morning, yet I remember it as though 
it were yesterday. Of what were the good men 
talking? I no longer know, and it matters little. 
It was not the sense but the speech that trans- 
ported me with felicity. No, I would never have 
believed that any one could be so happy; and on 
that day I understood Philoctetes. Ought not the 
household to make holiday for those who hasten 
toward it like this, with all their heart and soul? 

Who is it talks to us of these home-comings as 
a trial for the parents and so much wasted pains? 
I can't believe my ears, and yet I seem to have 
heard such language. Did I not read lately in a 
newspaper, apropos of the Easter vacation, 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 257 

*' Happy the youngsters^ less happy the parents " ? 
From what unnatural beings what old mole bur- 
rowed up in misanthropy^ does this idea come? 
Whoever he may be, he doesn't know what it is to 
be a father, and has forgotten what it was to be 
a child. Do not listen to him, my dear little fel- 
lows, on your way back to your homes. Have no 
fears, your feelings are shared; you have been 
sadly missed, and are awaited with growing impa- 
tience. Like you, the home people have counted 
the days. Their arms are stretched out to you, the 
home is decked for you, on the doorstep your old 
playfellow the dog watches for your coming, and 
will be the first to rush out to meet you. Come, 
then, and let us make up with kisses for the hard- 
ships of absence; come and make the house re- 
sound with the joyousness that shows us you feel 
quite at home ! 



When the students return, it is not from far; 
here are those back from longer journeys. They 
have lived abroad, crossed seas, toiled in the col- 



258 BY THE FIRESIDE 

onies^ seen the world of men; an occasional letter 
is all we have had of them; but now they are com- 
ing home^ they are on the way. We know the day 
of their sailings the name of their ship, and the 
probable date of their arrival. There is nothing 
to rouse one's interest in the affairs of ocean steam- 
ships like having children among their passengers; 
what up to this time was a matter of indifference, 
becomes an event of the first importance. When 
your children travel, in spirit you become travellers 
yourselves. To-day you journey with a caravan, 
on the back of a camel; to-morrow you descend a 
river in a canoe. There is not a savage coast or 
a hidden village that does not become to you a 
familiar spot as soon as one of your children has 
gone to make it his home. 

How will they look to us? Will they remain 
the same, or shall we open our arms to strangers 
whom we hardly recognise? How hard it will be 
for them to accustom themselves again to their old 
home! 

Never mind, they are coming back, that is the 
main point, and, after the first astonishment at the 
changes time has wrought, we shall soon find our 
old selves again, and the old affection. While we 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 259 

follow them in spirit along the route of their re- 
turn^ we are making our homes and hearts ready 
to receive them royally. What a contrast between 
a home where some one is making ready for a 
long journey^ and a home preparing to welcome 
dear travellers back ! In one the hearts are heavy, 
and silent tears fall as we pack the trunks; the 
joy of still possessing those we love mingles with 
the regret of having soon to part with them; a 
certain sadness shows in our speech^ and whether 
or no we acknowledge it^ we suffer. But with those 
who prepare for home-comers_, life is all anticipa- 
tion and hope. 

And you^ the expected, while we make ready a 
warm welcome, you fly to us, outstripping by your 
ardent desire the too slow motion of the ships that 
bring you back. You fix your eyes on one corner 
of the sky; there is the goal, the home land lies 
over there. Some secret force seems to be draw- 
ing you. Those who set out from home wear fet- 
ters, those who return, have wings. They look 
at the lands they pass with unseeing eyes. On, on, 
without rest or intermission, toward the home 
land, the dear home land! When you left it, you 
looked long behind, to say a last good-by when it 



260 BY THE FIRESIDE 

should disappear below the horizon; now you look 
bef ore_, piercing the mists with your eyes. 

Those who never leave their native soil^ to go 
and live under other skies^ among people who not 
only have other customs and another language^ but 
who neither think nor feel as we do^ having, to put 
it so, another soul — ^those without this experience 
cannot know what passes in the heart of a man 
when he sees rising out of the vapours of the ocean 
the first beacon light oiF the shores of his father- 
land, or its first pale line of coast. 

There behind the hazy outlines of mountains 
and cliffs, are those he loves ; there his brothers are 
toiling in the fields or in the towns, there his an- 
cestors sleep; his heart of hearts is there, the spot 
whence his life sprang. All this appeals to him 
and moves him in this first glimpse of his native 
land. 

Only a few hours more, one last reach, then a 
railway journey that seems interminable, and he 
is on the threshold of home. He was thousands 
of leagues away, at the other end of the world, and 
now he is here, we may see him, touch him, hold 
him against our hearts. Flow, tears of joy! and 
friends long denied caresses, make up for it now. 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 261 

and know that in tasting the rapture of these re- 
unions there are times when in intensity of emotion 
one day is as a thousand. 

***** 
And what if the returned wanderers are those 
who had gone astray^ prodigals made repentant, 
lost sheep found again and brought back to the 
peaceful fold? Material distance is nothing in 
comparison with moral distance. When the chil- 
dren have turned aside from the right way, have 
broken by violence their connection with the home, 
they are twice absent, and the separation from 
them is worse than death. And yet their return 
is always watched for. If they would only come 
back, acknowledge their fault, weep over their 
past, give us the joy of seeing that they have come 
to themselves ! These returns are rare. I have 
known many prodigals to depart, but few to come 
back. But where they are concerned, how true 
does this saying of Christ's remain, that there is 
more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over 
ninety-and-nine just persons which need no repent- 
ance! When these children of sorrow are given 
back to us, grown wiser and purified by their trials, 
the relief is so great, that we make their lot envi- 



262 BY THE FIRESIDE 

able to those who have never wandered. For in 
truth it is hard to be self -controlled and moderate, 
when that happens for which we no longer dared 
to hope. It is not right to be angry at the killing 
of the fatted calf; fathers should be privileged to 
compensate themselves for all they have endured. 
We must not rise in revolt against the glad bounds 
of their hearts. Let us bear up under the fact 
that it is more interesting to be found again than 
never to have been lost. 

In general, let us accord without question to all 
who return from afar, the privileges of an excep- 
tional situation. It is good that it should be so. 
As the wines that had made the voyage were more 
highly prized than those grown old in the vaults 
of the wine-grower, so the man who returns from 
afar is more illustrious than he who stays at home ; 
and his distinction extends to his family, that 
rightly honours him. Have you ever noticed what 
credit and authority sailors enjoy among their kin, 
and soldiers too^ and explorers, or whoever has 
made part of some notable expedition? Such con- 
fidence is placed in them, and their word has so 
much weighty that they are veritably prophets 
honoured in their own homes. The situation 



WHEN THE BIRDS RETURN 263 

abounds with perils like all those that go with 
privilege^ but the privilege does not offend me here, 
provided it be not abused; rather I recognise it as 
legitimate and salutary. 

***** 
And now let us look at one more form of return 
to the family centre, the patriarchal reunion where 
our sons and daughters, already established for 
themselves, come back to the paternal roof, and 
complete again for a little time the circle of other 
days. Then the solitude of the old home becomes 
animated, through the rooms, the corridors, and the 
long, silent garden the lively troops of grandsons 
romp and play, reminding the old grandfather 
that his name will not die out yet. Happy the 
hearth where the spirit of family has sufficiently 
maintained itself to be transmitted to the younger 
generations, and to create lasting friendship be- 
tween cousins. Nothing is finer than these fami- 
lies, widely established and firmly bound together, 
where the children and children's children have 
preserved the habit of coming to sit down at the 
same table, or fraternise under the grandfather's 
roof. How good life is there, how restful the 
heart! how much happier is happiness, and how 



264 BY THE FIRESIDE 

much stronger is strength! Those who do not 
know the charm of this lif e^ are deprived of one of 
the purest satisfactions it is ever given man to 
feel. 

Such reunions are not often repeated, there are 
too many chances against it^ and the more numer- 
ous the family^ the more difficult to make its 
number complete. Almost always someone fails 
to respond to the appeal. And then^ the time soon 
comes when the venerable heads of the family bid 
us farewell. The centre is destroyed, and the dif- 
ferent divisions of the family pursue each its own 
life. Then there is all the more reason to cultivate 
the union so long as the primitive bond remains, 
for the hour comes apace when the family will be 
dispersed never again to come together, when the 
dear old home will exist only in memory. 



XX 

HEARTS BEREFT 

NOTHING is sadder than a rifled nest 
and an abandoned brood. Such the 
hearthstone of man often becomes^ and 
then more than ever we should cross his threshold 
with sympathy and respect. 

Two had made the shelter together^ together 
they had shared in it the sorrows and joys of life, 
and dear little guests had come there to demand 
a place. Now one of the two is gone, leaving the 
other alone in face of the difficulties uncertain days 
bring with them. A pall is over the hearth, a veil 
of grief and mourning. 

Here it is the father who has been taken, and 
as a result of the blow the whole being of wife and 
children is pervaded by a sort of trembling. The 
little ones crowd round the mother like poor fright- 
ened chickens trying to hide under the maternal 
wing. But the mother herself — ^who shall reassure 
her? She has lost her stay. Never again will she 

^65 



^66 BY THE FIRESIDE 

hear the dear, firm voice, a music to her ears, that 
banished her anxiety, restored her to calm, envel- 
oped her with the feeling of security the presence 
of the man she trusts brings to a woman beloved. 
No longer can she hide herself in that sure refuge. 
Directly exposed to the brunt of affairs, she must 
meet the fate of those who protect others without 
having any guaranty for themselves. A burden of 
responsibility rests heavily on shoulders that have 
perhaps never been prepared to bear it. She must 
make important decisions; where shall she seek 
advice? There are only too many ready to give it. 
From the moment she is a widow, a host of people 
assume to themselves the right of offering their 
counsel: everybody thinks himself privileged to 
meddle in her affairs. If she is poor, she experi- 
ences the hard fate of the feeble; the full weight 
of social institutions and of man's egoism falls 
upon her and her children; one outdoes another 
in making her feel that she is alone and powerless 
to defend herself, and if anyone offers to plead 
her cause and protect her rights, cruel, experiences 
teach her to listen with suspicion — she who has 
such need of having confidence ! The widow whose 
condition is less precarious, who has lived in ease. 



HEARTHS BEREFT 267 

perhaps in luxury, meets other trials. It is no 
longer a question of bread, but of independence. 
If she would not relinquish her liberty, accept 
from sheer weariness or necessity guidance that 
begins in the form of kind offices and ends in servi- 
tude; if she would not be caught in the meshes, 
but keep the right of disposing of her affairs and 
leading the life she chooses, she must resign her- 
self to the idea of a ceaseless struggle. The 
woman with a position to maintain, upon becoming 
a widow, has to meet difficulties of which the widow 
in humbler life has no conception. 



Sometimes, as in the case of the families of gov- 
ernment officials, the death of the father is shortly 
followed by a change of home and surroundings: 
the residence belongs with his office, and must be 
abandoned. Then there is not only the death to 
mourn, but also the destruction of the home. One 
needs to be a factor in such an exodus to under- 
stand all its bitterness. To take up one by one 
little mementoes, mute witnesses of the happiness 
of other days ; to unhang the pictures, displace the 
furniture, and to touch none of these things with- 



268 BY THE FIRESIDE 

out the sense of death and separation; to sit down 
and weep in the midst of the disorder^ as we might 
amid the ruins of a city — ^how all this augments 
the sadness of the separation^ and aggravates the 
misfortune! Many things in this world have ex- 
cited my pity; among the most heart-rending of 
them all is this picture — On the highway^ behind 
the waggon in which their poor household furniture 
is piled, a widow and her children^ going they know 
not whither. 



So long as the children are youngs a woman 
alone solves better than a man the problem of their 
trainings and with tact and judgment she succeeds 
in giving them a moral impress; but the danger is 
that she will not modify her oversight and direc- 
tion as they grow older. A mother who shares 
with the father the responsibilities of the children's 
education^ is preserved from running aground on 
this rock; but the widow who for years has toiled, 
struggled and lived solely for her children, at- 
taches herself to them by such close bonds, becomes 
so used to protecting and guiding them, that it 
gives her intense suffering to see them fly with 



HEARTHS BEREFT 269 

their own wings. The least independence seems 
to her the signal of the final rupture^ and is like 
an arrow in her heart. With just appreciation of 
these sentiments^ we must yet point out the danger 
lurking in them^ and try to persuade the widowed 
mother_, at whatever cost, to begin early a tactful 
development of the liberty of her children, espe- 
cially her sons; it is the best way of guarding 
herself against great suffering later on, and of pro- 
tecting the children from grave missteps. It is 
impossible for them to realise what goes on in the 
heart of a woman thus left alone in the world, and 
there is danger of their showing their desire for 
independence with too much impetuosity and in 
ways which wound. That young people should 
aspire to the conquest of rights to a personal life, 
is perfectly natural, and with hindrance in the way 
they will go to the length of committing great in- 
justice in this incontestably just cause. Let us 
spare them a revolt by adopting a course that 
makes respect easy and does not provoke resistr 
ance by untimely restrictions or childish and 
humiliating demands. Furthermore, there are com- 
pensations worthy of this sacrifice that we are 
urging upon mothers. When after years of renun- 



270 BY THE FIRESIDE 

elation you have made men of your sons^ in their 
characters^ which you have allowed to take shape 
and grow strong at the cost of hard abnegation, 
you will find again something of what you have 
lost. Ripened in the midst of difficulties, they will 
acquire early the gravity of heads of families. The 
image of the father will be revived in their coura- 
geous youth, the thought of the father will inspire 
their actions, and you will have once more someone 
to offer you an arm and be for you a defense. 



When the mother is lost first, in the fulness of 
her life, perhaps even in youth, the home is at- 
tacked more deeply than when it is the father. 
The man faces the world, continues his work, is 
sufficient for the outside struggle; but in his home 
he is wounded to the quick. He returns to it after 
his day's work, and finds that its soul is gone. The 
faithful thought that penetrated everything, safe- 
guarded everything, gave life to the whole, is 
absent. If he is a workingman, he comes home to 
find the fire out, the table unspread, the little ones 
uncared for; after the hard day he finds await- 
ing him not rest but care, and the disordered house 



HEARTHS BEREFT 271 

that in spite of his best efforts he cannot put to 
rights. If he is better situated, able to surround 
himself with servants^ he faces a very grievous 
problem; how give over to strangers the direction 
of his house and the education of his children, 
without danger of falling into the hands of mer- 
cenaries ? And little matter how it turns out, even 
if perfectly successful, the new state of affairs 
will be a cause of suffering. If it brings him upon 
evil days, he looks with anguish at the empty place 
of her whose loss he feels at all hours and every- 
where: if the days are propitious, the grief is that 
she cannot share them. His children, his bond 
with the world, for whom he must live, recall con- 
tinuously the dear one who has gone, and their 
caresses, sweet to his father's heart, yet deepen his 
grief. 

The world cannot well judge what goes on in 
homes ravaged by death: what is most anguished 
and most sacred there belongs to the domain of the 
invisible, and may neither be judgfed nor divined 
from without. We must have passed through it 
ourselves, or possess the gift of living the life of 
others, to appreciate the weight of secret burdens 
and incommunicable pain under which so many 



272 BY THE FIRESIDE 

men and women^ maimed by death, are sinking at 
our side. 



My thought turns here to those who are left 
alone without children, and, although the separa- 
tion came early, have not cared to set up another 
hearth. There are circumstances under which a 
second marriage seems clearly the best thing ; there 
are others under which it appears as an impossi- 
bility. The marriage has been one of love; then 
death has come. It has destroyed the happiness, 
dethroned the young life, but the bond has held, 
only it has become entirely spiritual. Love has 
proved stronger than death, and henceforth one 
lives with a remembrance, enveloped in the invisible 
presence of a being he will never again meet on 
earth, yet who, in spite of the fatality of the grave 
and the brutal fact of bodily destruction, is here, 
close by, nearer than those he sees and touches. To 
me this lifelong fidelity, when it does not manifest 
itself by lack of interest in others, but on the con- 
trary by tokens of kindness and sympathy, seems 
one of the highest forms of nobility of soul. Let 
us not fail to give it recognition, and let us have 
the moral delicacy to comprehend and honour 



HEARTHS BEREFT 273 

those who have renounced the sweetness of life and 
the hopes of youth^ yet have kept a heart capable 
of sharing the satisfactions of others and looking 
upon their happy love with smiles. 

For some it is decreed to go through all of life 
together_, even to extreme old age. It is a rare 
and exceptional privilege, and calls for measure- 
less gratitude; yet toward the end it cannot escape 
a secret anguish. The more closely this length of 
life in common has bound them together, almost 
making it impossible to think of either alone, the 
more poignant, as it nears its close, does this ques- 
tion become — which will be the first to go? They 
have grown so habituated to one another that they 
cannot face the idea of separation. In certain 
shelters for old people, where husbands and wives 
may pass a tranquil old age together, a very ex- 
pressive term is used to designate one of them who 
is left alone — the odd volume. How appropriate! 
like a book astray from its companion tome. Odd 
volumes, indeed, those who have hitherto been one 
of two inseparable, have celebrated their silver and 
golden weddings, and now suddenly find themselves 
bereft. They seem like guests left behind at the 
end of a feast or a play ; the lights are out, the cur- 



274 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tain is down; they wander about in the emptiness 
like souls in torment^ possessed with the idea of 
continually searching for something they have lost. 
They hardly refrain from asking: "Have you 
seen my husband? Where shall I find my wife? '* 
I have among my remembrances this pathetic 
but exquisite one : — They had loved each other with 
the most perfect and unalterable love. Octogena- 
rians^ each an ideal of beautiful old age and of 
kindness and goodness^ they had come to resemble 
one another from this long intermingling of life 
and thought. One mornings almost without illness, 
he fell asleep. It was a year afterward that I 
crossed the threshold of this widow, as one enters 
a sanctuary. Inside nothing was changed; even 
the smallest object was in the place where I had 
always remembered it, with an air of fixity that 
gave the impression of the immutable. She sat in 
one armchair, but the other, which used to be 
his, was empty and she looked continually toward 
it, as though some mysterious guest were seated 
there, while she spoke of him with tears. I felt 
that the thought of him never left her day or 
night. "Would you like to see him?'* she asked 
me, " then come; " and going to the window she 



HEARTHS BEREFT 275 

showed me a little transparent photograph hang- 
ing in the light. They were both in the picture. 
They stood in a balcony^ leaning on the rail, their 
heads near together_, like two young lovers. He 
seemed to be speaking to her; she was smiling, 
with pensive eyes. It was an image of unalterable 
tenderness^ there in the flood of sunlight. I went 
away seeming to breathe a celestial air, feeling that 
I had been in contact with the immortal. 
•X- -x- -x- * * 

We have spoken of older hearts bereaved, let us 
think of the orphans, those who have early lost 
father and mother; and we need but to speak of 
them to awaken sympathy. Everybody feels that 
they have suffered an irreparable loss, and that 
there are grave duties here for some one. Whoever 
has within him a fibre of fatherhood, feels it stir 
in the presence of these little ones deprived of 
their natural protectors, and no child full of filial 
love, happy to be with his parents and to give them 
his affection in return for their fostering tender- 
ness and care, can help pitying with all his heart 
thos.e who may no longer say to anyone on earth — 
My father, my mother! Humanity has members 
in which she is more sensitive and more vulnerable 



276 BY THE FIRESIDE 

than elsewhere: it seems as though all her facul- 
ties for suffering were concentrated in them^ and 
a wound there were felt tenfold; and one of these 
members is the orphan. The younger and more 
helpless he is^ the more sacred. A kindness or a 
wrong done him is done to us all^ is done to God 
himself. Nowhere else do we feel so forcibly the 
rights of the weak or the horror of injustice as 
where he is concerned. He seems to bear some 
mysterious sign upon his lovely and fragile head. 
He is beautiful and smiling^ and in his eyes is the 
innocent charm that belongs to the morning of life, 
while those who would most rejoice in it are gone 
from him. His mother will never take him on her 
knees to cover him with kisses; he will never feel 
the clasp of his father's arms. Since the fact of 
his disinheritance opens all hearts to him, let him 
have his place at the hearth, be the child of us all. 
Alas for him who shall cause him to stumble ! Alas 
for him who would defraud or oppress him ! ** A 
father of the fatherless and a judge of the widows, 
is God in his holy habitation." 

* * -x- * •?{• 

If I have chosen to speak of a subject so heavy 
with shadows, there are many reasons for it; and 



il 



HEARTHS BEREFT 277 

the first is that we should never forget those who 
weep. In these pages^ dedicated to the hearth- 
stone^ there would be a strange gap if no mention 
were made of the greatest misfortunes that can 
assail it^ or of the responsibilities resulting from 
them for those who are spared such blows. And 
then^ it is good to look sometimes in the direction 
of things that are exceptional but against which 
no one is assured. Wisdom counsels us to re- 
member that we are mortal^ and to sometimes ask 
ourselves what would become of the beings dearest 
to us if we should fail them. We employ our days 
better when we remember that they are to have an 
end. 

But the chief reason why we should turn our 
eyes towards these regions is this. Desolate homes 
and plundered nests offer unquestionably a bleak 
picture; we see there veiled faces^ wounds^ pri- 
vation: but we encounter also the uncommon vir- 
tues of endless patience and holy resignation. 
There stores of sacrifice^ of devotion^ of active 
brotherliness are accumulated: it is a region where 
one continually comes in contact with invisible re- 
alities; miracles of kindness are accomplished 
there, and we may discover, more than altogether 



278 BY THE FIRESIDE 

elsewhere, virtues entirely above the common level. 
We are in the presence of a stern world, but it is 
as a leaden casket wherein priceless pearls glimmer 
like stars. 



XXI 

HEIRLOOMS AND FAMILY TRADITIONS 

IN old country houses one always finds some 
attic enriched with antiquities. It was in 
such a chaos of treasure-trove^ that on cold 
or rainy days which spoiled out-of-town sports^ I 
took my first lessons in patriotism and history. 
Before I had learned to read^ I had found there 
traces of our predecessors in the house and on the 
national soil — old pictures ravaged by time^ devoid 
of varnish and gilt^ where dim figures appeared 
under a veil of fine dust; venerable chairs wanting 
an arm or a leg; bits of stufi*^ tattered flags^ an- 
tiquated firearms, flint-locks, ragged uniforms of 
various epochs; gigantic books full of pictures, in 
iron-bound wooden covers, half their pages miss- 
ing. What riches and what exercise for the mind 
of a child! To handle and scrutinise such things 
is a pleasure of which he never tires; but when 
an older member of the family is good enough to 

279 



280 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tell him their history, whence they come, whose 
they were, how old they are, then the charm is 
complete. The faded portraits return to life, he 
seems to see dim figures in the crippled chairs, 
and the things of the past, that children so love 
and admire, revivified, pass in procession through 
his mind. So it has been from the beginning of 
time, and so it will be to the end. 

For that alert, mercurial being, the child, there 
is magic in stories of the past ; they hypnotise him, 
he listens open-mouthed, drinking them in with un- 
quenchable thirst. It is a good thing, and we 
should cultivate the taste and take care that me- 
mentoes of those who lived before us be kept 
visible in the family; it is not simply an element 
of education, an introduction to the poetry of ex- 
istence, but a prognostic of a life of solid worth 
and a pledge of faithful adherence throughout its 
length. And then, insensibly the records of the 
family lead us to those of the nation, the little 
fatherland whence we spring becomes a revelation 
to us of the greater fatherland. Starting out from 
this familiar corner and its encircling hills, we 
take the route for wider horizons where broader 
destinies are worked out, and through our filial 



HEIRLOOMS 281 

piety we are led to love our country, which be- 
comes to us in fact the land of our fathers. 

Remembrance of the past is a great moral and 
social force. Despoiled of tradition, man would 
lack an element essential to his life; faithless to 
his memorials of the past, he is like a branch de- 
tached from the tree. I believe that veneration 
for the things of the past should be cultivated 
among the new generations ; it is a powerful tonic. 
It need hardly be said that there should be no ex- 
aggeration. There are people who will not part 
with anything they possess, even so much as a 
scrap of paper, who cumber their homes with 
rubbish and squander their time in taking care of 
it. We must never lose sight of the fact that poise 
is everywhere necessaryj All things in modera- 
tion ! But this well understood, I abandon myself 
whole-hearted to the salutary inclination toward 
everything that recalls the days of yore. 

•X- ^ "K- 4€- * 

I shall begin with the little things. 

Permit us the satisfaction, you who shed your 
clothing with each new season, of feeling attach- 
ment for an old hat, an old cloak, and clinging to 
them iri the face of perpetual change. I admit 



282 BY THE FIRESIDE 






that your garments make a better show^ are more 
fashionable^ give you a more telling appearance, 
but they are ephemeral and to-morrow they will 
be no more. Distinguished strangers that one day 
brings and another takes away, they only pass, 
making no ties. They hinder our recognising you 
from afar, and near at hand they offer us too many 
metamorphoses under which we must search for 
you, and which even become disguises. A change 
of clothes is somewhat a change of face, and some- 
times a change of ideal. 

I love old garments; they are tried friends, 
companions of toil and struggle. When I take my 
old walking-stick and plant this venerable gear on 
my head, it seems to me that we covenant together 
to say in the face of a volatile and capricious 
world : We stand our ground ! With this old mantle 
about my shoulders, I feel invested with fidelity 
and constant attachment to what is enduring. Do 
not filch it from me on the pretext of charity: 
where is the poor man who has ever refused a new 
garment? Let him have it; for my part, I prefer 
the old: if it weren't idolatry, I should say that I 
adore it. 

I should say the same, too, of provincial cos- 



HEIRLOOMS «^83 

tumes and antique furniture. Ah, these old cabi- 
nets and sideboards and pieces of china! here are 
things that speak to the heart and the imagination ! 
To people of convention and stupid positivism, or 
the sorry coxcombs who feel called upon to find 
everything grotesque that dates from another 
century, they are cabinets and sideboards, and 
nothing more. But these objects are a form of 
speech, a storehouse of paternal wisdom, with 
which it is a great mistake to part. Products of the 
latest fashion know nothing of this language or 
this wisdom. 

While people display heirlooms that testify to 
past glory in their families, the proofs of distin- 
guished ancestry, more modest souvenirs are gen- 
erally given a less conspicuous place. What child- 
ishness ! Are we really so narrow-minded as that ? 
You preserve with care the medals, the swords, the 
armorial bearings of your forefathers, and you do 
well; but if you have the hammer of a smith, a 
pair of tailor's shears, a trowel, coming to you 
from some worthy workingman among your ances- 
tors, give it as honourable treatment. If your 
children have been brought up in ease, the sight of 
such an implement will be of the greatest good to 



284 BY THE FIRESIDE 

them. Tell them its history^ and/ that the story 
of it may not be lost^ write it out in some book of 
family records_, along with other memorable facts. 
In this way you will enrich and strengthen the 
spiritual patrimony of your descendants. To leave 
them goods and lands is well; to give them instruc- 
tion is playing a wise part ; but the best of all is to 
nourish their souls with vigorous traditions. 

* * -Sf -Sf ^ 

When these souvenirs come down to us from an- 
cestors far remote^ a sort of beneficent serenity is 
attached to them. Removed from the painful 
region of the first grief and mournings they lend to 
those so long ago departed an aspect of calm^ of 
freedom from our struggles and sorrows. It is not 
so with the members of the family, old or young, 
who have died in our own day^ leaving empty places 
at our hearth. Beside the graves where they sleep 
we shed bitter tears^ and the thought of them fills 
us with anguish. It seems to us that they have 
been cut off from the family, exiled, banished 
somewhere; it even pains us to see life go on with- 
out them. Not yet has their image come forth from 
the sombre region of the tomb into the luminous 
region where it will by and by appear to us trans- 
figured. 



HEIRLOOMS 285 

As we keep this image present to our spirit^ we 
need to make a constant effort to disengage it from 
the darkness_, and to banish any traces it has of 
our remembrance of the final sufferings^ the su- 
preme struggle. Little by little we must re-estab- 
lish the image of our dear ones as they were in 
life. This is also a victory over death^ at least 
over that in it which is material and brutal. Death 
must not be allowed to disfigure our vision of those 
we love: it is our right and duty to revolt against 
its negations; that is a sign of true devotion^ of 
active faith^ of potent affection. 

Our faith in God and in man's destiny unites 
with our devotion to the beloved dead^ to obliterate 
the traces of destruction under which, in the first 
moments of their going from us_, their whole being 
seems to have vanished away. Death multiplies 
under our eyes the witnesses to our insignificance^ 
our helpless frailty. We accept them so far as 
they concern our vain ambitions^ our undertakings 
against truth and righteousness^ the whole gigantic 
but perishable fabric of evil in us and about us; 
death's part is to destroy these things and assign 
them to their proper place in the dust. But we 
should be wrong to admit its demonstrations as ex- 



286 BY THE FIRESIDE 

tending to all that pertains to man^ to his inner 
life, to the divine and imperishable within him. 
There are things over which death has no domin- 
ion: should our religious hope waver, our profound 
affections would come to its aid. 

If another is really beloved by us, it is not 
enough that he should die to make him nothing in 
our eyes; if we could for a moment admit that it 
was, we should feel like accomplices in the destruc- 
tion. Death only makes him dearer, confirms his 
rights, sanctifies the place in our hearts where we 
cherish him well-beloved and living. And this 
which we do under the impulse of a sacred instinct, 
is only the first step toward still loftier presenti- 
ments and certitudes. Follow in this path; God 
has shown it to us; He knows its direction and its 
end. 

I consider the loving remembrance of the dead, 
one of the most strengthening elements of family 
life, but it is necessary that it should gradually 
undergo the transformation of which we have 
spoken. To let the pall above those who have left 
us grow denser and extend over the living, to 
smother youth under it and make the home atmos- f 
phere stifling, is a baleful practice : we owe some- I 



HEIRLOOMS 287 

thing different to the beloved dead as well as to 
the living. We must preserve the bond of brother- 
hood^ keep close to us in spirit those who have 
vanished from the visible world, associate them 
with our existence and accustom ourselves by our 
nearness to them to live above the realm of things 
visible and tangible. Let us in remembrance of 
them do often the things that they loved, inspire 
ourselves with their spirit, toil at the task they left 
unfinished, and talk of them in the family as we 
talk of dear ones absent from home. Thus grad- 
ually above the circle of the living, a circle of in- 
visible friends is formed, of gentle friends, mes- 
sengers of peace, who put into our minds thoughts 
of tenderness, of forgiveness and of courage, in- 
crease our faculty for the true life, and free us 
from whatever is disquieting in the idea of death. 
Solidarity preserved with the dead is solidarity 
made firmer with the living; it is increase of faith 
in Him for whom the living and the dead make one 
great indivisible family. 



XXII 
THE RELIGION OF THE HOME 

ARRIVED at the term of these reflections 
inspired by the life of the home^ I would 
^ raise my point of view to the height where 
the hearth appears as a religious centre^ a centre 
upon whose store Religion itself has drawn largely 
for its most intrinsic and imperishable qualities. 

And firsts considered in itself^ with its attach- 
ments^ its emotions^ its sacred treasure^ the home 
is truly a sanctuary. Like divinity it has its be- 
lievers^ its faithful, its altars^ its festivals^ its rites, 
its mysteries. People who no longer profess any 
religion, have kept the cult of the hearth: they be- 
lieve in it, they cling to it, they live upon it. No 
sacrifice in its defence seems to them too great, an 
attack upon it is to their minds an attack upon the 
very fundamentals of life, and to pervert or pro- 
fane it is to commit the crime of blasphemy. It is 
sad that anyone should have lost that great lumi- 
nary of the soul, religious faith, but it is well if in 

288 



RELIGION OF THE HOME 289 

the midst of this calamity he has been able to pre- 
serve the religion of the hearth. This is one of 
the points where the human touches the super- 
human^ where all that happens transcends the 
present moment and its utilitarian views, where 
hidden and powerful forces act incessantly. It is 
impossible that a man who preserves this cult 
should not find in it daily strength for righteous 
living. From the simple fact of his attachment 
and respect for something superior to his personal 
existence, his heart escapes from the dangers of 
exaggerated individualism, of unbalanced egoism. 
Perhaps he holds his path less by force of prin- 
ciples and doctrines than by that of remembrance 
and habit, of the emotions and affections. His ap- 
petites are repressed and conquered, through pity. 
The savage within him, that being without curb or 
compassion which slumbers in us all, finds that it 
must wrestle with the father, the son, the brother, 
and meets its master. 

The moral force of the family can be denied 
only by those who have never felt it. To judge 
from my own experience, there is no other power 
in the world commensurate with it. In these days 
of disintegration, or at least of fermentation, we 



290 BY THE FIRESIDE 

need to draw again from the original sources^ re- 
turn to the elements of all religion^ all morality, 
all society. The germ of all things human lies in 
the family; it is the base of the human edifice. To 
strengthen it, respect it, purify it, enrich it with 
grace, joy, kindness, truth and righteousness, is to 
found the city, consolidate humanity, provoke alli- 
ance with all healthful forces, and opposition to all 
the enterprises of evil. To spread abroad ideas 
that loosen the family tie, to establish institutions 
that thwart and imperil it; to uphold material in- 
terests that destroy it, to teach religious doctrines 
that rob it of its central place, is to put the ax to 
the roots of life. There could be no such thing as 
social or religious truth in contradiction to the 
family tie; their relation to that is their touch- 
stone. 

If the religion of the hearth counted a greater 
number of faithful adherents, there would not be 
so many stray sheep among us, we should be more 
brotherly, more tolerant, more temperate, purer, 
less cowardly in the face of injustice, kinder to the 
little ones, more respectful of everything worthy 
of reverence, more humane toward old age and 
toward all suffering. Every man, I fancy, has 



RELIGION OF THE HOME 291 

reason to beat his breast when he thinks of the 
sanctuary of the home; for in some way he has 
profaned it^ at his own hearth or at another's. 
There are healthy reflections for us here^ salutary 
examinations of conscience. 

•3f -Jf •?€• * ■}€■ 

But beyond all this^ the realm of the hearth is 
a source whence Religion properly speaking draws 
its supplies. The higher realities are revealed to 
us through different mediums; God speaks to man 
in all languages_, by all manner of signs. The 
whole universe is a word whose sense is the sublime 
and hidden truth that our thirsty souls seek for 
under every form. God speaks in the splendours 
of creation^ in the forces and the marvels of 
nature; He speaks in the mysterious continuity of 
history^ He speaks at the heart of man's con- 
science. For him who has not lost the normal use 
of his faculties^ every fact is a step toward the 
infinite^ every path leads to the heights^ every rill 
that winds in the meadows is winding to the sea; 
every appearance^ however transitory^ is a symbol 
of the immortal. 

But some facts have more of this power of sug- 
gestion than others; at some points the veil that 



292 BY THE FIRESIDE 

separates us from the imperishable world is more 
diaphanous and the contact more direct. We feel 
there somewhat as the ancients must have felt 
when the voice of their oracles cried_, '' Deus, ecce 
Deus ! " what Moses must have felt on Horeb when 
he heard the words : " Put off thy shoes from off 
thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is 
holy ground/' The hearthstone is one of these 
regions^ and even on the oldest historic soil^ in the 
shadow of the most venerable temples^ I have not 
felt with greater force the emotion that makes us 
tremble with fear and joy when we say^ " The 
Lord is in this place^ and this is the gate of 
heaven." 

Among the old and sacred words that the infirm 
lips of men have stammered before God^ many had 
their origin under the humble roof of the family^ 
and the sweetest name man gives to God he has 
culled from the lips of little children. Abba is one 
of the first human cries. Christ took it from the 
cradles of babes^ and made it an offering of ten- 
derness and confidence to God^ a source of consola- 
tion and reassurance to man^ of light among the 
obscurities of our life. 

He who is firmly held by the family bond^ finds 



RELIGION OF THE HOME 293 

himself in touch with the hidden base of things 
through the intermediaries established by the divine 
will. God has decreed that we should owe life to 
one another. Let us be true fathers^ true children, 
and by this fidelity to the sacred fundamental law 
we shall be to one another the messengers of God. 

I do not believe that any father or mother can 
be insensible of the absolute confidence our little 
children repose in us. When we hold them in our 
arms, comforted, appeased, in the perfection of 
security and of the happiness of being loved, do 
we not feel that we comply with some law greater 
than ourselves? 

Whence comes to these little ones the tranquil 
faith they have in us? why can nothing disturb 
them while we press them to our hearts? who, 
pray, are we to inspire an infinite trust? We 
are one of the links in the chain which reaches 
from God to these dear little latest comers: their 
calm means that the chain holds fast, the moor- 
ing is firm. 

Why then, you who inspire confidence, do you 
not feel confidence? why, you who bestow peace, 
are you without peace? It is because you are out 
of harmony, no longer conscious of the bond that 



294 BY THE FIRESIDE 

holds you. You have taken the few fragmentary 
views of the world that your reason has brought 
together^ and made of them a tottering universe 
which threatens to fall in ruins about your head. 
And while your son sleeps on your knees^ as secure 
as the stars in their courses, you^ his stay, feel 
yourself undermined. Of the two it is he who is 
reasonable, though he does not yet reason. Imitate 
him; it is your right. What you are for him. An- 
other is for you. Since he calls you Father, learn 
his language. Look above you and find your rest 
in the same confidence that you inspire, go back 
to the source whence it comes, and though it must 
be in the darkness, do you, too, say. Father ! 

A baby's hand is a very tiny thing, but no 
prophet's or apostle's is more potent to point the 
way to our Heavenly Father. I never open the 
sacred books without respect mingled with devo- 
tion, not alone because of what they contain, but 
also because of the memories so many diverse 
minds have accumulated around them throughout 
the ages; I attach the greatest importance to doc- 
trines, to traditions, even to the visible rites of 
worship: nothing that gives form or voice to the 
human soul leaves me indiiFerent. But no writing. 



RELIGION OF THE HOME 295 

no spoken word^ no majestic and imposing cere- 
mony^ has ever moved me like the evening prayer 
of my little children. 



What is most substantial in religion we have 
received as children. It underlies matured opin- 
ions and acquired beliefs^ in that region where our 
first impressions are almost blended with the ele- 
ments of life. This religion comes before dogmas 
and dogmatic distinctions; it is pure and simple 
human pi^ty: it survives the tumults of thought 
and the transformations of creeds^ and is a bond 
between all souls that possess it^ little matter their 
formulated beliefs. The maintenance of this re- 
ligion^ as yet without a name^ a banner or a symbol^ 
is of vital importance_, and the farther we advance 
in lif e^ the more we should cling to it. Nothing is 
better fitted to revive f aith^ to make the current of 
life mount again in the old growth of the beliefs 
of the ages, and enable some green shoots to push 
out among its many dead branches^ and nothing 
could be more confidently expected to create for 
believers of widely different views a common 
ground of fraternity. Then we should have a little 



296 BY THE FIRESIDE 

less of formalism^ of fanaticism^ of hypocrisy^ less 
religious hostility and ecclesiastical diplomacy, 
but more veril:able faith, more effective strength 
for living and dying. And perhaps now and then 
the faithful of divers folds would find it possible 
to say together, as children do at nightfall, " Our 
Father who art in Heaven." I should be disposed 
to offer many sacrifices on the altars of that cult, 
and I should count myself happy to sit down in 
silence among the faithful of all creeds, thus really 
become brothers, and joining hands experience 
what is meant in the words, '* Little children, a new 
commandment I give unto you, that ye love one 
another." 



It would be difficult to enumerate all that relig- 
ion owes to the family. Its vitality depend* 
directly upon the interchange between the two. A 
religion reduced to public ceremonial, with no echo 
about the hearth, disdainful of the family altar, 
jealous for a monopoly of the propagation of doc- 
trine, a religion that fathers and mothers do not 
help to teach, cannot do otherwise than decrease in 
influence. It may be protected against the trans- 



RELIGION OF THE HOME 297 

formations brought about by individual undertak- 
ings^ but it gradually loses contact with life^ with 
the souls and consciences of men^ and descends to 
the rank of the trappings of a play when the play's 
run is over. 

When the official institutions in which religion 
takes f orm^ and the dogmas that serve as its vehicle^ 
have gained age and importance_, they sometimes 
become forgetful of their origins. Like nobles 
oblivious of the plebeian estate of their ancestry^ 
these majestic powers come to believe that they 
descend only from themselves. It is a sign of 
weakness as well as of ingratitude. There is a 
marvellous page in the Old Testament, that should 
lead them back to a juster appreciation. Every- 
one knows the episode of Jacob's dream. A fugi- 
tive^ pursued by a justly resentful brother^ worn 
with emotion and fatigue^ alone at night in the 
desert where wild beasts prowl^ the young man 
drops to the ground^ taking for his pillow a stone. 
His heart is full of pain and anguish^ he feels 
that he is lost in the great unfriendly world. But 
weariness overcomes him; Jacob falls asleep^ and 
his dream is as beautiful as the reality is forbid- 
ding. On a ladder of light reaching up to heaven^ 



298 BY THE FIRESIDE 

he sees the ministering angels ascending and de- 
scending. God himself begins to speak to him^ 
and what does he say? He says^ " I am the Lord^ 
the God of Abraham thy father and the God of 
Isaac/' 

And thus the King of kings and Lord of lords, 
the Eternal who dwells in inaccessible glory, calls 
up as though for His sureties the father and 
grandfather of this child. He seems to say to 
him: " Fear not, I am with thee; thou mayst trust 
Me, thy fathers knew Me.'' What greater homage 
could ever be rendered to the hearthstone of man? 
He who might have said : " I created the suns and 
the stars, the hills and the seas ; I am in the whirl- 
wind and in the gentle air, in the dawn and in 
the darkness," chose rather to call up a family 
remembrance. He wills to hold to man by the 
same bond that holds the parent to the child. 

Religions and their representatives might well 
be asked to meditate upon this page. You call to 
witness your antiquity, your authority, your power, 
the strength of your dogmatic systems, the splen- 
dour of your temples. Surely all this is not without 
its worth; for our intelligence, our imagination, 
our eyes and our ears, there is enough here to con- 



RELIGION OF THE HOME 299 

vince^ fascinate^ surprise^ charm and captivate us. 
But there is a hidden path which leads beyond 
these outward things to the centre of man's life^ 
the heart. He that follows this path is the 
strongest. Believe in the God who has shown it 
to man, not even disdaining Himself to walk in 
it. 



Let us notice a last debt we owe to our remem- 
brance and visions of the paternal home. The roof 
of man is fragile^ the fire on his hearth dies out; 
the nest is torn by winds and weather_, its inmates 
scattered to the four corners of earth. Amid the 
wreck of the home in which we were reared^ and 
the ruins of life goes on heaping up around us, we 
are seized with homesickness for an eternal dwell- 
ing-place. Our hope is in an abiding city where 
there shall be no more mourning or separation^ where 
no one shall be an orphan_, or astray_, or solitary; 
where the pilgrim arrived at his journey's end shall 
shake off the dust from his feet and lay down his 
staff; where the whole great family^ at length com- 
plete and reconciled, shall take its rest in the peace 
of the heavenly home, 



800 BY THE FIRESIDE 

We love thee the more^ humble roof of earthy 
because thy bonds and thy affections are the human 
prophecy of a divine accomplishment^ because thou 
art the symbol of that shelter not made with hands, 
the Father's house in which are many mansions. 



THE END 



MAR 3 1 1904 



: 



